Noir
by RobinRocks
Summary: AU set in 1948 . Welcome to 1940s Gotham City. There's no place Detective Dick Grayson would rather be... until an investigation into a string of interconnected crimes begins to go bad. DISCONTINUED.
1. Prologue

Picture it.

It's a city that, like every other, was affected economically and socially by the war; a city back on its feet, a whole three years after said war ended.

It's a city; and indeed a _world_ unto itself.

A man's world.

A _mad_ world.

In years to come, they will call this the "noir period". In movies. In literature. In _fashion_.

The era's got its stars. Hollywood is entering the "Golden Age". In another few years there will be no stopping it. The fifties will give birth to stars that will become pop icons. Elvis Presley. Marilyn Monroe. Buddy Holly.

For now, there's Frank Sinatra. Judy Garland. Fred Astaire. Katharine Hepburn. Bing Crosby. Humphrey Bogart. Lauren Bacall. Gene Kelly.

Technicolor dreams to brighten up your day.

_The Wizard of Oz_, often rerun, offers escapism. _Singing in the Rain_ is sure to brighten up your day, no matter how the weather has been. _Casablanca_ is there for the romantics. Or there's the serialized chapter movies, two cents or so a seat.

If you'd rather keep your few cents for something you consider more worthwhile, there's plenty of reading material around now. Pulp books are as popular as ever, the last decade or so has seen immense rise in comics, and there's always the radio. Radioised stories of fantastical heroes and wonderful worlds beyond this; current affairs; comedy shows; perhaps a little Glenn Miller.

Consider the atmosphere.

It's dark. It seems like it's always dark. This will later be replicated in "noir".

In this particular city there's permanent smog overhanging the streets and buildings. Perhaps _this_ city more than any other.

It's an era of cigarette smoke; of shuttered blinds; of trench coats and fedoras and suits and ties and waistcoats and braces.

An era whereupon women, freed by the war which took the men from the industrial work, have found their feet. Make-up and shorter skirts are acceptable. They are more beautiful than they have ever been – and more daring.

More _dangerous_.

The femme fatale has been born.

It's an era of detectives and gangsters. A violent, passionate time of robberies and shoot-outs, of murders and confessions, of uncertainty and _belonging_.

That is, some belong here in this world.

And some do not.

Picture this city; perhaps in a black and white photograph from a sixty-odd year old newspaper, faded yellow with age by now.

This is Gotham City.

The year is 1948.

Picture it.

Compare it.

_Imagine_ it.

And then imagine being told you've never known anything else.


	2. Blinds

Well, well, well. Eh heh. Guess I couldn't, after the small success of _Nevarmore_, keep away from the Elseworlds premise.

To be honest this is _Teen Titans_ again, like _Nevarmore_, crossed slightly with _Batman: The Animated Series_ – and indeed, given the setting of this particular Elseworlds, this takes maybe more of a nod from the latter than the former, despite being in the _Teen Titans_ section. That said, it is not in the _wrong_ section, it is just based more heavily on _TAS_ in regard to costume, settings, props, etc.

It is also, admittedly, slightly based on an episode of _Batman: The Animated Series_. I am not going to say which one until the end, although those of you familiar with _Batman: TAS_ and/or this episode will probably work out which it is before I reveal it.

Once again, Robin-centric. I know, I'm boring. But look at the pen-name. I am obliged. _Obliged_, I tell you.

Also, given the storyline, it is most fitting that it be focused around Robin.

But yeah, I am becoming predictable.

One more thing to note – the narrative style switches from third person (he, she, they) to first person (I, we, me) during the chapters. I don't know why I decided to do that – I just did, and I like it, so…

Enjoy, I guess.

Blinds

_Everything starts with something._

_Some past event. Some deed. Some secret._

_Sometimes even a wish._

_As for all this…_

_Me?_

_It started with a case._

**TT**

It's the strangest thing.

When I open my eyes, I see a room I swear I've never seen before in my life. And yet, at the same time, I know it. I know it like the back of my hand.

When I look to my left, I know I'm going to see a bedside cabinet, on the surface of which is a lamp, a packet of cigarettes, a folded newspaper and a battered tin alarm clock.

And when I look, there they are.

I don't feel any different. At least not physically. And… not even _mentally_, really.

But something is different.

This place – this _room_ – feels wrong. Alien.

And yet why does it feel so familiar too? The things in it – they're all mine. I know they are; and what's more, I know _where_ they all are.

I sit up. I'm in bed, bare-chested. It's dark – a dark I recognize. The kind that is infringed on by a slender grid of harsh yellow light, courtesy of a combination of window blinds and street lights. It's thrown across the entire room.

I recognize this.

Guess I didn't shut the blinds properly.

I flick on the lamp. Reach for the cigarettes. Get a book of matches from the drawer of the cabinet, where I know they will be, and get out of bed.

It's cold; but I know there's a flannel robe hooked over one of the bed posts. I pull it on, leaving it loose as I go to the window.

Pushing back the blinds is reassuring.

There is my city. _My_ city. Same as always.

I can hear a siren in the distance. Nothing new there.

Yeah. _My_ city.

I strike a match and light up a cigarette.

Since when do I smoke?

…_Since always._

Nothing's changed. Everything is the same.

So why this odd feeling? Why these images? Why these names and faces? Some I know, and some I do not. Friends and enemies manifested onto the characters I have seemingly created.

I watch the smoke curl in the yellow slats of light; and smile.

No, this is all right. This is all _original_.

Must have just been that dream I had.

**TT**

The dream itself was a fantastical one; vivid, wonderful, so… _real_.

He could not recall exactly when he had experienced it – most likely that night, since it was disorientating him right now. Making him wonder if his true existence was… well, _true_.

But of course, his wild dream… Which was more realistic? Waking up in bed in an apartment in Downtown Gotham to find you hadn't shut your blinds properly; or waking up in bed in a ten-storey tower shaped like a "T" to find your wardrobe full of capes, masks and green spandex pants?

That was amongst the things he had dreamt of. He had dreamt of that existence – of himself out of shirts and ties and hats, replacing them with an outfit that was, if nothing else, entirely the opposite. He had dreamt of a heritage – of a man dressed as a bat; of his parents, circus performers, falling to their deaths in a fabricated "accident". He had dreamt of this tower, a haven of technology unlike any he had ever seen before. He dreamt of a team – a team that _he_ led. A team comprised of the most wonderful and monstrous people. An alien. A shape-shifter. A witch. A half-robotic hybrid. He dreamt of others – of evil-doers. A magician. A British invader. A long-haired youth on a motorbike. A monster that was half-man, half-spider.

A girl who had sought to destroy them.

A man in a mask.

Some faces he recognized. He had created these creatures – or some of them, at least – out of the people he knew. Friends. Superiors. Enemies.

But strangest of all was the technology and the history his mind had conjured up. The robot man had been beyond imagination, as had the computer…

Computer.

_That_ was a new word.

Well, the vehicles. There had been a car. A "T-car". And a submarine. And a motorbike; a beautiful red motorbike. Gadgets and weapons – a retractable fighting staff. A little hand-held device called a "communicator", like a portable telephone.

Sure, they had walkie-talkie things now, but those communicators… They weren't quite on the same level.

There had been a television. A television practically the size of a theatre screen. A television in full crystal clear color, with a thousand channels.

And a "games console". A Gamestation. He recalled playing on it, in his dream. It was like nothing he had _ever_ seen in his life – and yet, in his dream, he had taken it for granted. Like it was no big deal.

Circular discs called CDs that played music without all the hiss and crackle of the radio.

Oh, and _what_ music…

Not the swinging Big Band. No crooning. No, this wasn't Glenn Miller, or Frank Sinatra.

He couldn't recall it exactly now – and that made sense to him. How should it be that he would remember music composed in his dreams?

But Glenn Miller it had not been.

He remembered it all so clearly, and yet… He could not conceive its _reality_.

Just a dream.

Oh, but _what_ a dream.

And _what_ a world. What an _existence_.

Not that his own embittered him. Not at all.

After all…

He was doing what he had always wanted.

**TT**

A suit, a fedora, a cup of black coffee and a cab ride later transformed him from the disorientated dreamer, yearning for a life which didn't exist, into…

"Good morning, detective."

Nodding his reply, Detective Dick Grayson pushed open the door to the GCPD's 38th Division.

The Department of Criminal Intelligence.

His friend and partner, Detective Victor Stone, was already at his desk, tuning the radio; paperwork laid out before him.

Dick approached the desk and leaned over it. After a moment's pause, he said but one word;

"Cyborg."

Detective Stone looked up sharply.

"What?"

The younger detective was studying him silently – in his mind superimposing the metal and circuitry of his dream over his friend's body.

The robot-man's identity had, by now, occurred to him.

_Cyborg_ had been none other than Victor Stone.

He shook his head and sat down, shrugging off his jacket.

"Nothing. Sorry."

"Cyborg" eyed him worriedly.

"Robin? You okay, man?"

This time it was Dick's turn to sharply raise his head.

"_Robin_." He said the two-syllable word slowly and deliberately. "That isn't my name."

"Well, no." Vic looked puzzled. "It's a nickname. Remember?"

"I…" _Robin_ removed his hat and rubbed at his temples. "Yes, I suppose… that's right."

"Of course it's right." Detective Stone's gaze was still wary. "You sure you're okay this morning?"

"I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine." Robin dragged his fingers down his face. "I'm just… tired, I guess."

"It's Monday morning. You just had the weekend."

"Mm."

"And _Cyborg_?" Vic stressed it. "Is that even a _word_?"

"Look, just forget I said it." Detective Grayson folded his arms on the desk, having recollection of a case; _that_ case… "What about Blood?"

"That's a homicide. You know that's Bullock's job."

"Ugh." Robin rolled his eyes. "Bullock. How'd he end up in Homicide, anyway?"

"No idea." Vic pushed across a cream manila folder full of paperwork. "Not like we haven't our fair share here, so don't complain."

"I guess. I mean… there's about six departments involved with that case, right?"

"Right." Detective Stone got up and headed towards the coffee machine. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure."

Robin fooled with the radio himself while Vic made the coffee and brought it back.

"As I was saying…" He took the radio and replaced it in Robin's hand with a cup of black coffee. "Due to the nature and circumstance of the killing, there have been a lot of departments involved. We've got enough right here linked up to it, but since he was shot, that makes it a homicide, which gives Bullock and the rest of his department the most freedom over it."

"Right." Robin took a sip of his coffee. "But it was over drugs."

"Uh huh. That brings the Narcotics team in."

Robin smiled faintly to himself at that – Detective Roy Harper down in Narcotics was a slacker and the amount of work the Blood case had brought in for him hadn't amused him one bit.

"I'm sure he's having a field day down there." Vic grinned. "Meantime, since we can almost definitely assume this had some connection to organized crime, it's _our_ job to figure out exactly how this outcome… well, _happened_."

"I wrote up a preliminary theory on Friday."

"Mm. Yeah. I got it. I made a few little amendments. Gar said Crime Scene Investigation had come up with some more stuff we should know about."

"Oh?" Robin raised his coffee cup again. "Run through it for me, as it now stands."

"Alright, well… An infamous and notorious gang boss, known primarily as one Brother Blood, has always thus far eluded capture by the GCPD. He's been out there for years and we've never been able to get him. His most recent hit up was a large underground drugs racket, raking in thousands of dollars selling stolen and smuggled drugs. We can only assume at this point that he did, however, upset someone even higher up the chain than him. On the night of Thursday 4th November, 1948 – making it last Thursday – gunshots were heard near Crime Alley, and nearby uniformed officers were notified. They discovered Blood dead at the scene and the area was cordoned off. The autopsy has proven that he died via a total of nine bullets, fired from a .38 Magnum. His three known accomplices, known as the HIVE, have been taken into custody."

"Right." Robin nodded thoughtfully, taking in the information as though it was new to him – and yet having recollection of a knowledge of everything that Detective Stone had mentioned. "So what we still don't know are the two most important factors – who, and why."

"Well, just a guess… But I would think our answer for "why" would be money."

"Mm." Robin nodded in agreement. "I suppose. What else is there to benefit from selling drugs?"

"Exactly. Even so…" Vic sighed. "At the moment, the only suspects we got are those HIVE kids, and it's not looking at the moment like they did it. Any of them. They all got solid alibis and they all match up. 'Sides, seems to me like they were far too afraid of Blood to try anything against him."

"What about a gun trace?"

"Last I heard, they were doing something about that. Still, that's a common gun, the .38 – it could be a matter of months and _months_ before they find it."

"By which point, the perp coulda gotten rid of it." Detective Grayson examined his coffee, swilling it around the cup. "Why can't all criminals be like the Joker?"

"What, that psycho clown who poisons people with that freaky laughing gas?" Vic looked alarmed. "Why'd you say _that_?"

"Agh, you know what I mean." Robin looked at his partner through splayed fingers. "_Because_ of that laughing gas… you always know it's him."

"Oh. Yeah." Vic nodded. "It _would_ be nice if they all left calling cards. But, since they don't…"

"We got _our_ work cut out for us."

"Mm. Well, since _we're_ Criminal Intelligence, it _is_ kinda our job to figure out who these wacks are." Detective Stone snapped his fingers at the folder. "We got about fifty others like that, stuffed full of dirt. I'm willing to bet you twenty bucks that our perp is staring us right in the face. I mean, we probably got pages and pages on 'em; we just don't know it's them."

"_Yet_."

Vic grinned.

"Well put, well put…"

The taller detective began to distractedly search through his pockets, eventually surfacing with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

_Him too…_

Robin frowned. Put down his coffee.

Vic saw his fingertips go to his forehead, as though he was suffering from a headache.

"You _sure_ you're alright there, Dick?"

"Y-yeah." Robin looked up. "Could I have one? Please?"

"Sure." Vic offered him the packet, then handed him the lighter.

His hands were shaking just a little – making him a miss a few times before he finally got it lit. On snapping the lighter shut and handing it back, Robin distractedly took it out of his mouth without even drawing on it.

"Cyborg-" He started.

"Victor." Vic leaned over the desk. "_Victor_. Why do you keep calling me that? That _word_? _Cyborg_?"

"I'm sorry." Robin took a deep breath, examining his cigarette. "_Victor_." He looked up again. "Vic, I know this is dumb, but… humor me. How long have I been… _smoking_?"

Detective Stone shrugged.

"Ever since _I_ can remember. Why, you thinking about quitting?"

"Y-no. I don't know." Robin distractedly put the cigarette in his mouth again, drawing on it; as Victor slid a glass ashtray across the desk, puffing away on his own.

He watched Robin close his eyes as he inhaled and then breathed out the smoke, as though he was savoring it.

He opened his eyes again.

"It's so… odd. Because. Because I don't _want_ to smoke this." He looked at the cigarette in his fingers with distaste. "It's a _disgusting_ habit."

"You've never said that before."

"No. Because I've never really _felt_ it before."

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I…" Robin's voice was distant as he fixed his gaze on the blazing orange end of the little fiery stick. "…I don't know. Like I said, it's just so odd, because I don't _remember_… I don't remember taking it up. Yet, I feel like I _should_ be smoking, even though I don't really… _want_ to, and don't really remember doing it _before_ now, even though I _must_ have, since you just said I've done it before, and there were some on my bedside table, and…"

"Well, if that's how you feel, why'd you ask for one?" Vic snapped waspishly. "Wasting my damn cigarettes…"

"Because…"

Robin looked around the office. The décor was typical of the decade – dark, plain, with blinds at the windows and a pale, coffee-stained carpet. There were a few posters around – Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth. Vic's trench was over a chair; Robin's own was on a hook, left over the weekend. This was their office, Vic Stone's and his – it said their names on the door in gilt paint.

_DEPT. 38_

_CRIMINAL INTELLIGENCE_

_DET. VICTOR STONE AND DET. RICHARD GRAYSON_

Funny, that. It was not beyond his recollection to know that he and Vic were the only two detectives in the whole of the Gotham City Police Department employed in the Criminal Intelligence unit. That was them – Criminal Intelligence. Two detectives in an office on the very top floor of the precinct building, surrounded by file upon file on Gotham's Most Wanted. It was their job to ferret out information on primarily gang crime, but since they were technically the "record keepers" around here, often they found themselves the key component to the final piece of a case. For within the hundreds upon hundreds of hand-written and typed sheets alike in this office, they had the whos, whats, wheres, whens and whys of just about every crime ever committed in this city, and the criminals that had committed them.

The Five Ws. Like a newspaper story.

Except the guys in _their_ "stories" were getting the book thrown _at_ them rather than being _in_ it, so to speak.

So the point _was_ that he could recall all of _that_ – he knew this much.

He knew the whos, whats, wheres, whens and whys concerning all this.

But as for the smoking…

"Because… It doesn't feel right _not_ to. Everything. This atmosphere…" Robin gestured around the office vaguely, leaving a coil of wispy smoke to trail the movement of his hand. "…It makes me feel like I _should_ be smoking."

Robin looked at his partner helplessly.

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't," Vic agreed blithely. He didn't seem too distressed, rather more interested in his own cigarette. "Mmm. Well. I don't know why you're complaining – that's some good tobacco."

"Smoking's bad for your health."

Vic laughed.

"Don't be stupid."

"It's _true_," Robin insisted. "It's linked to cancer and all sorts."

"Says _who_?"

Robin paused.

That was a point.

Who _had_ said?

He didn't recall hearing it anywhere. Reading it anyway. Seeing it anywhere.

"I…"

Vic grinned.

"_Riiiiight_. Okay, Dick – you just stay there and get up on with some work. I'm going to go call Arkham."

"Ah _ha_." Robin intoned it irritably. "Okay, I realize I'm acting a little strangely today…"

Vic snorted.

"A _little_?"

"Okay, a _lot_. I'm sorry. I just… I had this _dream_ last night, and I… I know this sounds really dumb, but it's left me so… I dunno, _confused_. I mean, I'm having trouble distinguishing between _it_ and… well, _this_."

"Real life?" Vic offered, finally sitting opposite him.

"Maybe." Robin stubbed out his half-finished cigarette and put his face in his hands – the loss of the cigarette much to Detective Stone's chagrin. "It just seemed so _real_ to me."

"Wishful thinking?"

"I wouldn't say so. I mean, it was pretty neat and all, and it might be interesting to experience that kind of lifestyle properly, but I can't say I'd want to _trade_, exactly."

"And what was this _dream_, exactly?" Vic ventured, leaning a little across the desk.

"Well…" Detective Grayson looked up at him again. "…_You_ were in it."

"I was?"

Robin nodded.

"Yeah. And me too. And, uh… ah, it'll come to me in a minute. And we… just…"

"We what?"

"Um…" Robin kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. "Promise you're not gonna laugh."

"Hey, you got my word."

"Okay, well… we were, uh… _superheroes_, I guess."

Vic snorted across the other side of the desk and Robin looked up murderously.

"You promised _not_ to laugh!"

Vic gave a few hiccoughing giggles.

"I'm sorry…" He snickered again. "But you're serious? _Superheroes_? Like those comics they publish now?"

Robin didn't answer for a moment.

"Yeah, I guess…"

"Ah, that's rich…"

"It's not _funny_."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I promised not to laugh and I broke my promise." Vic scratched at his neck above his shirt collar uncomfortably. "Okay, lay it on me, then. What kind of superheroes were we? What did we do? What were our names?"

"Well…" Robin felt a sudden need for his cigarette again and salvaged it from the ashtray – Vic handed him the lighter with a grin glued to his face. "We didn't live here. We lived in this city called Jump City, in this big tower thing."

"_Big tower thing_?" Vic repeated tonelessly.

"Uh huh. It was called… uh, Titans Tower."

"Mm." Vic nodded appreciatively at the alliterative patterning. "Nice name. Any reason for it?"

"Well, sure. We were a team. There were five of us. We were called the _Teen Titans_."

Vic managed to suppress another snort, instead watching his partner fidget nervously with his cigarette.

This dream of his had certainly affected him, that was for sure. Vic hoped he wouldn't be so unraveled for long, especially not with the Blood case looming over their heads like this.

Perhaps talking it out would do him a favor or two.

"Okay, well, you said there were five of us. You and me, that makes two. Who were the other three?"

"Well, you were… this half-robot guy." Robin took another deep breath – then countered it with an inhalation on his cigarette. "This guy called Cyborg."

Vic's eyebrow arched.

"So _that's_ why…"

"Yeah."

"What cool powers did I have?"

"Well, you were super-strong. And you had all these built-in gadgets, like a proton cannon in your arm and a torch and things like that. I mean, I think it was in the future or something, because it was so… _different_. We had a huge television, all in color. And all your gadgets were… well, nothing like anything we have now."

Vic was grinning.

"Sounds like my kind of thing."

Robin smiled sadly.

"Not really. You… well, _Cyborg_. He hated being the way he was. He said it made him feel like a freak."

"Oh." Vic didn't have any answer for that. "Oh," he said again.

"And there was this green kid. A shape-shifter, you know? He could become any animal he wanted."

"Name?"

"Uh… Beast Boy, I think."

"Any dames?"

"Uh huh. Two." Robin held up that amount of fingers to cement his point. "One was this alien princess, Starfire. Real stunner, with red hair and green eyes. She could fly and shoot this green energy stuff. Starbolts."

"Right." Vic was part interested, part highly amused – but he kept a straight face as he asked; "And the other?"

"Ah. Raven. She was the opposite. Smaller, dark hair and eyes. Bit of a creepy dame, to be honest, but she was nice enough. She had that thing, you know. Moving things with her mind. Telekinesis."

Robin paused.

"Hey, come to think of it, Roy was in it too."

"He was?"

"Uh-huh. An archer. _Speedy_, his name was."

"That all five?"

"Oh, no. No. Speedy wasn't part of the original Titans. He just sort of showed up now and again. No, Vic… Number five was _me_."

"Ah." Vic's eyebrow quirked. "Of course. You did say. So what were _your_ amazing powers, then? All of the above? Super-strength? Immortality?"

"Um…" Robin frowned, looking at the desk's surface. "You know, I… I don't think I _had_ any…"

Detective Stone blinked.

"You didn't?"

Robin shook his head, drawing on the cigarette that was rapidly burning away between his fingers.

"Then why were you on the team?"

"I… I could, you know, fight. Like really good."

"But you can do that anyway. It's part of the GCPD training."

"No, I mean… Martial arts. And acrobatics. Oh, and I had this stick thing. A retractable one."

"A retractable stick thing." Vic leaned his chin on his hand. "Wow. Sounds like you had it made."

"Shut up." Robin's eyes narrowed. "It might also interest you to know that… I was the leader."

Vic snorted.

"Right, great idea. Put the _powerless_ guy in charge of a _superhero_ team…"

"It wasn't like that. The whole thing… It was because… of this partner I had. Because of… _Batman_…"

"Isn't that a comic or something?" Vic responded dryly.

"_No_. Well, see… the oddest thing about that, you know… was that Batman. This Batman guy. He had another identity, as you do. You know, being a superhero and all. I mean, he wasn't _born_ Batman."

"Yes, I guess that would make sense," Vic agreed.

"Well, his secret identity. Underneath it all, he was… he… was…"

"He was _who_?"

"Bruce Wayne." Robin said it quickly, becoming engrossed in his cigarette as Vic bugged out at him.

"_Bruce Wayne_?" He repeated. "You mean… _the_ Bruce Wayne."

"Yeah."

"_The_ Bruce Wayne, who is downstairs."

"Right."

"_The_ Bruce Wayne, who is downstairs, in his office."

"Right."

"_The_ Bruce Wayne, who is downstairs, in his office, doing his very important job of being Lieutenant-in-Chief."

"Right. Him. _That_ Bruce Wayne."

Detective Stone burst out laughing.

Robin angrily stubbed out his cigarette a second time, getting up and going to the window to push back the blinds; Vic's peals of laughter following him across the room.

Trying his best to ignore him, Detective Dick Grayson instead turned his attention to Gotham City. It was a reasonably bright morning for November, giving him a good, clear view of the city he had dedicated his life to protecting.

In a trench and fedora as opposed to a cape and mask.

He leaned his forehead against the icy cold glass as Vic found his voice again;

"So you… you were… his partner. This _Batman_ guy." Another snort of laughter. "Bruce… Wayne…"

"Yes. That's right." His voice was as cold as said glass.

"So who were _you_?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You. Your name. Batman and…?"

Dick looked across at him, both his expression and his voice suddenly so deadly serious that Victor Stone stopped laughing altogether.

"_Robin_."

**TT**

ZOMG, and the hardcore _Batman: TAS_ fans have figured me out already, no doubt…

Yup yup, Robin is a bit crazy in this, and he gets crazier…

There are two reasons why Robin is referred to as "Robin" while Cyborg is "Vic". One… well, I'm not saying the first one yet. Two – Vic and Dick rhyme and it looked stupid.

There are also THREE reasons why it is set in specifically 1948. But I'll be sharing those as we go along and right now I'm not revealing any…

Characters showing up within the next two or three chapters: Beast Boy, Raven, Starfire, Terra, Speedy, Bullock, Bruce Wayne…

It's all good.

Hope you all likey so far.

RobinRocks xXx


	3. Newspaper

Well, I've had a fairly good response, considering no-one reviewed the prologue. Or maybe they did. I dunno. But that's okay, since I didn't expect anyone to – it's not even part of the actual story. And, well, I guess this isn't as adventurous as _Nevarmore_ – that was set in the Victorian period; this is set in the 40s. _Batman: TAS_ already did that, so…

We continue here with the slightly-crazy Detective Dick Grayson, aka Robin; his partner Detective Victor Stone; meet Detective Garfield Logan; and another familiar face; keep with the alternating narrative style of first-person present tense and third-person past tense; and visit the Batcave!

Thankyou to: **Quinn and His Quill** (who was, if you don't mind, only "mildly interested". There _is_ a point, Quinny-Boy, and you will see it soon enough! P.S: You going to the 6th Form prom?); **Luneko **(there's more right here for you, my dear! Hope this makes you happy to!); **Guardian of Azarath **(Slade? Well, he wasn't in _Nevarmore_, so maybe…); **Alonein-Darkness7 **(nice suspicion. I obviously can't tell you if you are right though…); **KGDiva **(what do I have up my sleeve now? So many aces they're falling back out again…); **Me** (Ah, Robin. He's always crazy… Remember _Haunted_?); **RevealedReverie** (yes indeedy, everyone loves crazy Robin! Glad you like it…); **dlsky** (it's you! You're pretty famous in the _TT_ section – it's an honour to have you on board. My, I'm peppy today… O.o); **LoopyLouise123 **(Arthur Miller! I read _Death of a Salesman_ just for the hell of it! It was pretty good. Glad you're liking it – the fic, I mean!); and **Narroch** (nyes, Narroch the Ever-Faithful. Sorry, there is no _FAKE_-ness in here at all. That didn't occur to me at all, actually. This takes inspiration mostly from _Batman: TAS_, _LA Confidential_, a specific episode of _Angel_ called "Are You, Or Have You Ever Been?", and even _The Number 23_. No _FAKE_, and no _CSI/Law and Order_. I don't watch either of those. As for _Batman: TAS_… I should think you've figured me out already…).

Everybody pile into the time machine; and let's take ourselves back to Gotham City, 1948…

Newspaper

_Alright, so he thinks I'm crazy._

_Victor, I mean._

_He must do. After that dumb story I laid on him this morning._

_That dream._

_Why am I so worked about it? That's the real question here._

_A dream is a dream._

_And it's not him who is the idiot here, for disbelieving me._

_No, that would be me._

_For believing it._

**TT**

"Whaddaya wanna do for something to eat?" Vic wants to know.

I look up – I know it must be nearly five o' clock by now. For the past hour I've been staring at this newspaper article. I guess I'm preoccupied, since I'm not taking it in at all. You could ask me what it's about and I couldn't tell you.

I've got this piece of paper to hand, and a pen. I've been idly scribbling away, hardly concentrating on the lines forming on the page there either.

Didn't know I could draw this well, to be honest. Sure, I get by. I can play that picture game at dinner parties, or I can draw someone a map.

Hm.

I look up at Vic. Maybe I should hide this…

"Did you want to do a delicatessen run?" I ask in reply, slipping my doodle inside the newspaper. "Is anyone else on this floor going?"

"I'll go check."

Vic leaves the room. He's whistling something. _I've Got You Under My Skin._

I can't help but grimace a little. Most likely a coincidence, but I hope it's not aimed at me. He's barely spoken to me all day, not since I told him about my dream.

I content myself with tapping out a little tune on the desktop with my pen until Vic comes back. When he does so, it's apparent to me that he's managed to accumulate a tagalong.

I grin at said tagalong.

Detective Garfield Logan, of the Crime Scene Investigation Department two floors down.

There's a big team of them. Six or seven. Sometimes the GCPD brings in additional detectives from Metropolis to help out if it's a big crime scene. These guys are like our bloodhounds – each and every time a crime is committed, they're first on the scene, taping it off to prevent the public disturbing it, and combing it over for clues. Any weapons, narcotics, clothing, stuff like that – these guys bag it up and pack it off to the department that deals with it.

The rest of us are only allowed in after _they're_ done.

That's Gar. First dibs on everything.

Even so, he's a very good friend of ours.

Today, he seems ecstatic.

"Hey, look who I found just coming up the stairs," Vic proclaims, as though he found a _diamond_ on the stairs.

"Excellent field skills demonstrated there, Detective Stone," is my desert-dry answer.

Gar isn't interested in our banter today, pushing away from Vic to practically pounce at me.

"Dick, you are not going to _believe_ it!" He seizes my wrists in his excitement. "Over the weekend I met this girl and she actually laughed at my jokes and she said she liked me and I'm going to meet her today when she gets off her shift and isn't it _great_?"

"Uh…" I pry my wrists out of his iron grip. "Sure?"

"Oh, she is such a _doll_!" Gar is clearly thrilled with himself for "scoring", as Vic would put it. He pushes aside my newspaper and sits on the surface of the desk. "Long blonde hair, big blue eyes…"

He sighs happily.

"She's so perfect…"

"She sounds it." Vic comes up behind me, leaning on the back of my chair.

Gar's grin widens.

"Doesn't she?"

"Yeah." Vic smirks. "What _I_ wanna know is what she's doing with _you_."

"Hey!" Gar is hurt by the remark, I can tell – but still, he's too sky high to be really affected by it.

He does take the bait, however – and I tune out their bantering as I focus instead on prising my newspaper out from where Gar, despite his moving of it, has still partially sat on it.

No good. He must have an ass of lead because all I'm doing is tearing it.

"Hey, Gar… My paper…!"

"Ah, sorry, Dick…" He leans a little to the left and tugs the paper out himself, pausing to scan it as I impatiently hold out my hand for it. "Oh, hey, look!"

"_What_?" I snap.

Gar brandishes the paper with a flourish.

"This article, on the front page. It was written by Vicki Vale."

Vic and I stare him down simultaneously, equally nonplussed.

"What's your point?" Vic asks finally.

"Vicki Vale. _The_ Vicki Vale!" Gar insists.

"Yes. Vicki Vale. She's a journalist," I agree coolly. "I am, however, failing to see the significance here."

Gar blinks his green eyes at us as though we're morons.

"Don't you guys _know_?"

"Know _what_?" Vic groans wearily.

Gar straightens up self-importantly, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Well, on _our_ floor, it's all everyone is talking about," he says confidentially. "Bruce Wayne is _dating_ her."

"_The_ Bruce Wayne?"

"_The_ Bruce Wayne."

"And _the_ Vicki Vale?"

"Yes, _the_ Vicki Vale." Gar grins, enjoying the scandal more than ever now that he has an audience. "Montoya said that she overheard him talking about it to Commissioner Gordon; and _Bullock_ said that he saw Vale come in here one night the other week and go into Bruce Wayne's office and she didn't come out again for hours and Bullock said he was trying to work on that shooting of some of Roland Daggett's gang two weeks ago, only he couldn't because he was distracted by this banging noise coming from down the hall and _he_ said he reckoned they were going at it right there and then on Wayne's desk, and—"

"Alright, _thankyou_ for that, Gar!" Vic interrupts irritably. "That was very… _enlightening_…"

Gar sulks.

"You know you loved it…"

"I know I wouldn't believe everything Harvey Bullock tells me," is my pleasant reply.

"Mm." Vic grunts his agreement, snatching the paper from Gar's hand.

As he does so, a certain doodle slips out and floats to the floor.

There's a scramble for it – Gar snatches for it, but I get there first, practically elbowing him in the face to do so.

"What _is_ it?" Gar demands.

"Nothing." I savagely crumple it up. "Just a stupid drawing I did."

"Can I see?"

"_No_." I flip the ball of crumpled paper across the room into the metal wastepaper basket, where it lands with a satisfying and definite clang. "I said it's nothing."

"It can't be _that_ bad," Gar protests.

"Art's not my strongest point…" I turn to Vic, changing the subject to signal to the persistent Garfield that the conversation is over. "So. Dinner. Did we decide?"

"The Firearms Investigations crowd already sent their guy."

"Nice of them to ask if _we_ wanted anything," I mutter.

"Wasn't it just?" Vic doesn't seem too offended. Instead he turns to Gar. "You were telling me where this new girlfriend of yours works when we were coming up the stairs…?"

"Oh, yeah." Gar brightens again. "The Batcave Bar and Swing Lounge, just off Main Street."

"Tell us about it."

"Restaurant during the day, bar and swing lounge at night. Fourteen-piece band, cigarette girls, licensed bar, the works.."

"Is it nice?"

Gar nods.

"I was there on Saturday night. It's a real nice place, good atmosphere. That's where I met _her_."

"The food any good?" Vic's Number One priority, of course.

Gar nods vigorously; I put in my two cents;

"The coffee good?"

Gar nods again crazily.

Vic and I exchange a glance; and then I get up to retrieve my hat and jacket.

Looks like dinner is sorted.

**TT**

She was working when they walked in there.

Detective Dick Grayson knew her a mile off. Long blonde hair. Clear blue eyes. Big beautiful smile.

He and Vic shared a glance towards Gar – his stance had taken on the characteristics of someone shot in the kneecaps.

Having a lack thereof, to put it bluntly.

"There she is," he murmured.

"Uh huh."

Robin removed his fedora as the Maitre D came bustling towards them, a slightly worried expression on his face.

"Is there a problem, officers?" He asked nervously, assuming they were here on business.

"Detectives," Gar corrected immediately, not taking his eyes off the blonde girl.

"My apologies. But I trust there is no trouble that you wish to pursue here?"

Robin shook his head.

"We're off-duty at the moment."

The Head Waiter gave a visible sigh of relief.

"A table, then?"

"If you would," Vic put in from the back.

"How many?"

"Just the three of us," Robin answered on behalf of all said three of them – Gar was too busy going gooey-eyed over his new blonde girlfriend and Vic was gazing at him, half-amused and half-exasperated.

"Very good, sirs. If you'll come this way…"

They followed him to a booth off to the far left – it was quite secluded, away from the rest of the tables, and offered both a pleasant sense of privacy and a good view of the stage.

Garfield was right – it _was_ a nice place. Well-furbished, with dark, subtle colors; burgundy, brown, cream, wine, black. All of the tables and chairs were wood, as was the bar surface. A few guys sat up on high stools at the bar itself; they were all sharp, professional-looking. Lawyers, doctors, business bosses…

Detectives.

A few cigarette girls, petite and pretty, clad in cute matching dresses of wine, cream and black to match the décor, milled around, between tables and waiters and waitresses. Said waiters and waitresses wore uniforms of these colors too.

Women in silk and mink and pearls sat with single martinis – men in shirts and ties accompanied them, with various spirits and cocktails of their own.

The stage was empty at the moment, devoid of an act and with the dark crimson velvet curtains pulled across. To the right of it, a youngish man in a tuxedo played soft tinkling melodies on a sleek ebony grand piano. His expression, his entire demeanor, was that of relaxation, tranquility, almost dreaminess – as though he cared little if anyone was listening to him or not. He was playing for himself. It was not recognizable music – Robin, for one, found that it did not stick in his head. He could hear it, but he couldn't remember how it sounded even after only a few moments.

The Maitre D took their drinks and left them with the leather-bound-and-gilt-menus; Vic on a Double Scotch, Robin ordering a dry martini on ice and Gar opting for a simple but undeniably good vanilla milkshake.

"Never been in here before," Detective Stone mused, glancing down the menu. "But I gotta say, I'm impressed already."

Gar grinned.

"Great, ain't it?"

"As long as their steaks are as good as everything else, I'll be happy."

Gar raised an eyebrow at Vic's reply.

"Hey, watch it, Vic. Vegetarian?"

"Tch." Vic snorted. "_Salad-munching-no-good-little_…"

Gar's mouth opened again, ready to stoke the fire.

"Well, you know, it _is_ a little odd," Robin said hastily, distracting Garfield's attention from the imminent argument.

"Yeah?" Gar's narrowed gaze was fixated on _him_ now.

"Well, consider. You're a detective, in the Crime Scene Investigation department of the GCPD, no less."

"What's your point, Dick?"

"My point _is_… that you complain about eating animals when you spend all day, _every_ day looking at dead bodies and murder weapons."

Yeah, but I wouldn't _eat_ them!" Gar said indignantly. "And it's not like _I_ kill those people either – it's just my job to get the first look-see at a crime scene."

Robin shrugged.

"It just seems odd to me that you're so adverse to eating meat when—"

"Oh, neither of you even _understand_ vegetarianism—"

"I understand," Vic interrupted the both of them, "that if _I_ was a vegetawhatchawhatever, I couldn't have the six pounds Flamed Pepper Steak."

"_Six pounds_?" Robin stared at him. "Are you _insane_?"

"Nope." Vic grinned. "Just hungry."

"That's practically an entire _carcass_—" Garfield started, outraged.

"You'll _never_ finish it," Robin added complacently.

Gar turned on Robin for the second time in what seemed like as many seconds.

"Whose side are _you_ on?" He demanded. "All you care about is that he won't finish it, not that he's going to attempt to eat like a whole _cow_—"

"Hey, I never _pretended_ I was an anti-meat campaigner, now _did_ I—"

"Ah, shaddap, the whole two of you!" Vic snapped, shutting them up in his own way; pasting Garfield over the head with his menu while pinging one of Robin's braces with his other hand, causing it to snap painfully against his shoulder.

"_Ahem_."

A female voice, accompanied by a similarly female presence, suddenly made itself known behind them as Gar whined and Robin hissed in pain.

The three of them looked up – and Gar's "agony" was immediately cast aside.

It was the blonde girl – a waitress, apparently, and holding a tray, on which were their drinks.

"Couldn't keep yourself away, Garfield?" She asked, a mischievous but likable grin spreading across her pretty face.

The detective in question blushed deeply, grinning idiotically.

"W-well," he started, stumbling over his words, ""I know I wasn't supposed to, you know, m-meet you until later, but my… my colleagues here, well, my, my, my _friends_… uh, _those two_…" He pointed vigorously at Vic and Robin each in turn, making them recoil from the violence and proximity of the action. "Well, they… they were hungry, because… you know, because it's late, and they need to eat, you know, being… well, _human_ and all, and well, I guess I just suggested here, and we _came_ here, and…"

He trailed off; she was biting her lip to stop from giggling.

"…Here we are?" He finished, before give a weak little laugh of his own.

Over in the corner, Robin and Vic were killing themselves with silent squeals of mirth.

"Well…" The waitress put their drinks onto the table with utmost care and grace. "You're in luck, stud. I'm serving you tonight."

She tipped Detective Logan a wink and he punched the air in celebration.

"Sweet!" He exclaimed.

Vic snorted into his Scotch.

"S-_sweet_?" He spluttered.

Gar looked affronted.

"Yes, Vic—"

"Garfield," the waitress interrupted hastily, "I haven't met your colleagues before. Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Oh, yeah!" Gar's grin returned to its full glory. "Guys, this is Tara Markov. She works here."

"Right," Vic deadpanned.

"Got that," Robin added, nodding towards her uniform and the fact that she had just brought them their drinks on a tray.

"And these two _classless idiots_," Gar intoned, seething, "would be Detectives Dick Grayson and Victor Stone."

Tara grinned, flicking back her blonde hair.

"It's nice to meet you, gentlemen. Gar told me about you."

"Yeah?" Vic's eyebrow arched. "What have you been hearing, Miss Markov? About the time Gar over there saved us from a fire in our office?"

"Because we'd like to set the record straight," Robin added, "that it was a cigarette paper in an ashtray that just so happened to have caught slightly aflame on the desk there…"

"Well, if you hadn't noticed, it could have turned into a _real_ fire," Gar started, outraged.

"Maybe, but we didn't need you barging into our office and hitting it with a chair," was Vic's jaded reply.

Tara was stifling giggles again as she pulled out a notepad from her apron.

"Oh yeah?" Garfield fired back. "Well, what about the time you and Roy stole the goldfish from the tank in the lobby and put it in my cup of tea?"

"Ah, it didn't _die_, now did it?"

"It could have!" Gar snapped, exasperated. "For godssakes, Vic, who puts a _goldfish_ in a cup of tea?"

"So… do you actually _do_ any work?" Tara asked uncertainly.

"Oh. Yes. Absolutely." Vic sipped at his Scotch contentedly.

"Goldfish theft is _not_ work, Vic—"

"The GCPD," Robin quipped dryly, raising his martini; "When there's trouble, you know who to call."

Tara quirked an eyebrow.

"It would seem that way."

"Oh, and the goldfish episode?" Robin looked intently at her. "I had nothing to do with it."

She smirked and turned her attention back to Gar and Vic.

"So, what can I get for you?" She asked, poising her pen over her notepad…

She was obviously wishing she hadn't asked at all when she walked away fifteen minutes later, having just beared witness to yet _another_ row between the three so-called "professional" guests. Vic wanted pepper steak, Gar didn't want him to have pepper steak, but Vic was _adamant_ he was having pepper steak, while Gar was equally adamant that he _wasn't_ having pepper steak, and Robin was in the middle of it all trying to stop the dispute and order his own meal at the same time…

The GCPD.

Professional to the last.

**TT**

Okay, time to admit to some things. Kudos to me for doing some historical research:

1.) Robin and Cyborg are detectives in Criminal Intelligence, which is **Department 38** of the GCPD. The reason that I chose Dept. **38 **is because the first issue of _Detective Comics_ that Robin the Boy Wonder appeared in, in Spring 1940, was **No. 38**.

2.) There are three reasons why this fic is set in the year **1948**. The first of these is that when Robin appeared in 1940, he was eight years old. I generally write the _Teen Titans_ version of Robin as sixteen – there is no standing proof of this, but _TT_ writer Rob Hoagee has actually matched that with his own guess, recorded on transcripts on TitansGonet. He said that they never really sat down and decided what age the Titans all were, but he reckoned that Robin was sixteen. But I digress. The reason for it being set in 1948 is simple maths – if Robin was eight in 1940, he would _literally_ have been sixteen in 1948.

3.) The second reason it's set in 1948 is that Vicki Vale, mentioned in this chapter as Bruce Wayne's beau, first appeared in the _Batman_ comics in, you guessed it… 1948.

The third reason I can't part with right now. Heh.

Next chapter; say hello to the two main Titan ladies. :)

Oh, and don't put a goldfish in a cup of tea. It will probably die.

- RobinRocks xXx


	4. Nametag

Yay 40s. Whoo. And, uh, all that, I guess…

Agh, well, my laptop is broken, so… I haven't been able to write any _Noir_, or, indeed, _anything_, so… I'm kind of annoyed about that.

Hn, it is two in the morning in UK time, so guess I'll just cut right to the thankyous:

**AlsoSprachOdin **(oh, well, I'm glad I was able to set the scene for you. And a _DBZ_ fan, huh? I used to be one of you…); **Me **(thrilled you got the stupid site to work, m'dear!); **LoopyLousise123 **(I see Arthur Miller is getting to you. Never fear – at least he was a good writer! Cy and BB are _always_ amusing…); **Laurapen **(this site is funny like that. Some fics are really awesome and deserve tons of reviews and have hardly any; and some others absolutely suck and have like 50+ for one chapter. It's so unfair…); **Quinn and His Quill **(no, that wasn't another link. I have no idea when _I've Got You Under My Skin _was written. Hopefully _before_ 1948… Glad you decided to stick with this, anyway!); **Ash Wednesday** (thankyou! Cool pen name, BTW!); **Narroch **(I can't watch _Law and Order_. It's on Sky and I don't have Sky anymore… Now you've reopened the wounds! _Sob_…); and **Guardian of Azarath** (no matter the place, no matter the time-zone, I think Cy and BB are forever destined to fight about food. But we love 'em anyway!).

Okay, introducing… Raven and Starfire!

Nametag 

The departure of the waitress – Tara, Garfield's new and most coveted squeeze – left the three detectives sitting in uncomfortable hanging silence; until Vic Stone broke it by going through his pockets in search of cigarettes. He came up broke and looked between his two colleagues hopefully.

"Dry," Robin said shortly after checking his own pockets. "I got a lighter, but nothing to light."

"You know I gave up," Gar said coolly.

"Well, someone snag a smokes girl the next time one comes past…"

An unfortunate cigarette girl was soon located and beckoned to; she looked as though there were a million things she would rather be doing than prancing around a swing lounge in a skimpy costume with a tray of cigarettes at her waist.

In fact, she really didn't fit the bill at all. She was certainly pretty, but small in stature – petite and slender, not busty and leggy like her fellow cigarette dolls. And the rest of them all wore ruby lipstick and wore their hair arranged in the fashion of the era – curled and pinned up. _This_ girl had dead straight hair, dark and only shoulder length, and wore little to no make-up whatsoever. Her eyes were an intense, moody violet.

Robin blinked and _stared_ at her as she went over to Vic, who he ran his gaze scrutinizingly over the selection in her tray. After choosing, he made his purchase, handing her two quarters – one for the cigarettes and one for herself, he said. She thanked him, looking surprised by his generosity, and started to walk away; Gar getting himself a good view of her butt in her tight little skirt as she passed him.

On impulse, Robin grasped her elbow as she passed him, making her jump and turn quite defensively.

"Cigarettes?" She asked mechanically, her arm still stiff beneath his fingers.

He looked at her for a very long time, and she looked right back at him – sapphire meeting amethyst.

"_Raven_," he said finally, still gazing hard into her eyes.

She stiffened further, and, sensing her discomfort, he slid his hand off her arm. She looked at him a little while longer, silent, her eyes wide; and then turned away and walked off, still wordless.

"_What_?" Robin snapped, practically feeling the gazes of Vic and Gar burning into his back.

"How did you know her name?" Gar demanded. "I thought you said you hadn't been here before?"

"I haven't."

"Then how…?"

"Nametag," Robin fabricated.

"Yeah, well, she was standing right next to me," Vic put in nonchalantly, flipping open his cigarette packet, "and I know she wasn't _wearing_ a nametag, smart guy."

Robin opened his mouth, and then closed it again wordlessly, floored.

"_Well_," he finally started with conviction, "I-I…"

The lights suddenly dropped, bringing him to a startled halt. Vic and Gar looked around too, puzzled at the sudden darkness.

"Hey, what's goin' on here?" Vic asked loudly.

Robin watched him push back his jacket to reveal the gun in its holster strapped underneath, his fingers inching towards it.

He opened his mouth to voice his own opinion, but someone got there first;

"Put that away!" Tara was back with a small tray of appetizers, her tone and expression irked.

"Trouble?" Robin asked, putting down his glass.

Tara snorted, putting down the tray.

"Far from. It's the _entertainment_, pal. Put the gun away!"

With an abashed grin, Vic let his jacket fall back into place.

Now that his attention had been brought to it, Robin noted that pianist had stopped playing. Instead a spotlight had appeared on the still-empty stage, and colored synthetic lights shone from the ceiling, washing over both stage and audience. There was a rattling and rustling from the previously vacated bandstand, where a few musicians were setting up shop.

"Is it the girl who was singing on Saturday?" Gar asked.

Tara sat on the edge of his seat, nudging up next to him.

"Yeah," she replied. "She's good. A great singer, and an even better performer…"

"Who?" Vic demanded, helping himself to some hot fried king prawns from a small basket on the tray.

Gar grinned.

"You'll see…"

Tara giggled.

And in that instant – the seconds that engulfed his grin and her giggle – the colored lights washed over them.

Green.

Then yellow.

For a moment, Gar's skin became green.

For a moment, Tara's eyes glowed fiery gold.

And then the light moved on, and _he_ was left staring at them; two names put to two faces in his reeling mind.

Beast Boy. The shapeshifter. The jokester.

And Terra. The earthmover. The _traitor_.

The two in question did not notice him staring bug-eyed at them; Tara giggling once again as she fed Garfield a piece of fried bread from another sizzling basket. She was far more interested in _him_ than in her job, that much was obvious.

Nothing much escaped Victor Stone's notice, however.

"Hey." Vic snapped his finger in front of Robin's face. "Dick? You okay there?"

"I…" Robin put a hand to his forehead. "I don't know…"

"What's _wrong_ with you today?" Vic pressed on, exasperated.

"That _dream_…" Robin groaned in reply.

"Oh, will you give it a rest?" Vic snapped. "_Why_ are you so wired up about it?"

"Because it's so _real_, Vic. I'm seeing it _everywhere_ – people, places… _This_ place, in fact. The _Batcave_…"

"The cigarette doll?" Vic asked warily.

"Yeah." Robin massaged his hair wearily. "I've never seen her before, Vic. Ever. And yet I _dreamt_ about her…"

"Which was she?"

"Raven. The empath."

"The _what_ now?"

"The _witch_ girl," Robin snapped.

"And Garfield there?" Vic nodded towards the other detective.

"Beast Boy." Robin sighed deeply. "Shapeshifter. Green skin."

"You just figured that one out?"

"Yeah. Because of the light. He looked _green_ for a second or so, and…"

Vic shook his head incredulously.

"You're cracking up, pal…"

Robin rubbed at his temples with his thumbs.

"Maybe I am," he said softly.

"Perhaps you should go down and see Quinzel on the third floor there."

"Ha." Robin looked at him sourly. "Great idea, Vic. Go see the resident criminal psychologist…"

"Emphasis on _criminal_."

"Shut up."

"Whoa." Vic looked intently at him. "This is really eatin' you, isn't it?"

Robin nodded miserably.

"I just… It's completely knocked my view of reality about…"

"Look, _trust_ me." Vic's gaze was piercing, unwavering. "This is real. This life, everyone here, everything you see around you. Your superhero stuff? I'm afraid it's in your head, no matter how real or uncanny _any_ of this may seem."

"I know, _I know_. And that's… that's where I _want_ it to be. In my head, I mean."

"You sure?"

"_Yes_."

"Then stop _fussing_." Vic snapped his fingers at the stage. "There, look. A dame to take your mind off it all…"

Robin looked up at the stage, where the curtains had risen and a tall, slender female form in a floor-length crimson evening gown was making her way towards the lone microphone, front and center-stage. A few whistles and catcalls accompanied her entrance, but she ignored them professionally.

From where they were sitting, their view of her wasn't great – since they were back alongside the left-hand side of the stage. Robin and Vic could really only see her from the back – Garfield might have had a better view if he wasn't too busy devouring Tara in the same fashion Vic was devouring the appetizers.

He could see that she had long red hair, and wore white gloves that extended above her elbows. The dress was deep-backed, strapless, and sewn with tiny glittering red gems.

She was strangely beautiful from the back; and yet stranger still, amidst his admiration for that beauty, Detective Dick Grayson was struck with the sudden fanciful idea that she wouldn't be able to sing very well.

He was proven very, very wrong a few moments later when she opened her mouth. Her voice was as beautiful as her visage – soft, melodic, low, even a little husky. The words she sang, however, were meaningless to him – were they even English? He couldn't understand a word she was saying, nor again could he truly comprehend the music.

He looked at Vic, who was leaning back, listening to her languidly, a soft smile on his dark face.

Vic didn't seem puzzled or perplexed at all. Maybe he hadn't even _noticed_.

Garfield was preoccupied, of course…

Okay. Fine. Robin leaned back, trying to relax and enjoy himself, his martini clutched loosely in his fingers. He allowed the music to simply wash over him, not caring whether he could understand or comprehend or _remember_ it or not.

An animated cheer accompanied her final line; a mix of encouragement and more whistles and cries of "Encore!".

An emcee stepped up to the microphone, adjusting his bowtie with one hand as he gripped the metal pole with the other.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you've heard her before here at the Batcave – you know her, you love her, and she never fails to disappoint!" He cried, one arm around the girl's shoulders. "So would you _please_ throw your fedoras in the air and raise the roof so much that they can here you all the way in Arkham Asylum for Miss Kory Anders, known exclusively to you all here tonight as the one, the only… _Starfire_!"

Robin, who had been suavely sipping at his drink, explosively spat his mouthful back into the glass at the sound of that name. Vic's eyebrows arched dramatically as he watched his partner do it – one moment he was being Mr Cool over there, the next he had martini coming out of his nose.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Dick?" Vic hissed, thrusting a napkin at him to mop himself up with.

"That… _name_…!" Robin choked. He looked up at the stage as he wiped his face dry, watching the girl – Kory Anders; _Starfire_ – launch into another deep, moody blues number. This one seemed to have more swing and rhythm to it, for she swayed her hips and tossed her hair this time around. Her movement was strong, graceful – as though that of a dancer, a warrior. And then she started to move further still – to stride across the stage as though a catwalk model, her long legs and killer heels visible beneath the long slit up one side of the skirt.

Robin stared at her.

Stared and stared and _stared_ at her.

Partly in fascination. By her looks, her body, her voice, her movement. He was stunned by her very presence – and perhaps not the _only_ one here, at that.

On the other hand, he was most _definitely_ the only one here imagining her flying and shooting green laser beams from her hands and eyes.

Because this was _her_. Koriand'r, crowned princess of the planet Tamaran.

_Starfire_.

Robin looked at Vic, who was giving him The Eye. Dejected, he looked away again towards the stage.

Starfire, who had been sitting momentarily on the table to the right of the stage, singing directly to the fat, graying business man sitting there, unwrapped her legs from the microphone cord and gracefully ascended onto the stage again, crossing it boldly with the clear intention of going across to sit on the table at the other side.

Which was _their_ table.

Robin recoiled as she neared the steps leading down from the stage right to their table.

"_Vic_," he hissed, "_she's coming over here_!"

"I know." Vic seemed a lot less distressed; mostly probably because he didn't think he was cracking up into the bargain too.

Gar didn't notice.

Starfire reached the table, her expression sultry, determined, even a little _bored_, as though she knew mens' reactions towards her were fruitless.

Whether they were recoiling from her, such as the resident Detective Grayson there; or leering and grabbing at her, like some of the other guys.

She sat on the table's surface right next to Vic, who simply grinned at her; even when she leaned right into him, practically whispering the lyrics of the song in his ear. He just smiled, unmoving, his cigarette slack between his fingers.

That was Vic. Cool in all situations. Well, _most_…

She pulled her feet up onto the table and rose gracefully atop its surface, giving her immense height as she sang a few very powerful lines amidst much cheering. The music swelled, going into an instrumental break in the song, and on top of their table Starfire launched into her best slice of dancing yet.

Even Garfield had come up for air at this point, and was watching her, mesmerized; as Tara clung to his arm, grinning up at the singer. Her writhing movement was further enhanced by the colored light that was washing over her; transforming her into a creature of rainbow qualities.

It was when the green once again descended, first upon her – bathing her in emerald, as though the alien power he had dreamt of. It played across her eyes, flashed on her fingernails, and maybe at this point he really _was_ half-expecting her to actually lift right off the table's surface and into the air.

He averted his eyes from her and glanced across at Gar.

He too was green again.

Robin stood up abruptly. He was going to go _crazy_ if he sat here one more moment—

As though she had been waiting for him to move, Starfire had stepped down and blocked his path in an instant. He stopped, stepping backwards in shock, and she pushed him back into his seat. The music died down and slowed again, and she began to sing once again, leaning down towards him. Pissed, he made to get up again, and she straddled his lap to prevent him from doing so, making him freeze up and stay exactly where he was.

She slowly and deliberately reached behind her and picked up his fedora, not breaking her gaze with him; just as she didn't when she placed it at an angle on her own head.

He did nothing but continue to stare right at her; angry, perplexed, stunned and turned on all at once. Her fixated attention on him and him alone was causing a few murmurs amongst the rest of the audience, not to mention a few laughs. Maybe it was jealousy; but either way, the detective was becoming very uncomfortable with her undivided attention.

She eyed him for a moment or two more; then leaned right into him, her mouth at his ear.

"What would you like?" She whispered. She withdrew, gazing at him.

He looked right back at her and, after some debate, told the truth;

"I'd like you to get the hell _off_ me."

She laughed; sang another line or two, not budging.

"Perhaps you would like this too?" She asked softly as the music played in her stead. She touched the side of his face, bringing her mouth right up close to his.

But she left it there, as though imploring _him_ to close the gap. Another few centimeters was all it would take…

He heard a few gasps ripple through the male population of the audience and decided that kissing guests wasn't a regular feature of Starfire's cabaret show.

He didn't close the gap, much as he would have liked to.

"Perhaps I could ask you the same thing…"

She sat back.

"I do not understand…"

He didn't offer anything else and eventually, starting to sing the final reprise of the chorus, Starfire slid off his lap and slinked gracefully back to the stage, still wearing his fedora. He watched her go, thoroughly unnerved.

"Dick?" Vic put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. "You alright there after that?"

"Yeah." Robin shook him off and stood a second time, this time without a determined cabaret singer to stop him. "I'm just going to get some air…"

"The food will be here soon!" Vic protested.

Robin ignored him, making for the balcony doors to the left. He pushed open the doors and stepped into the crisp, icy night, putting a wall between himself and that accursed club.

Up on stage, Starfire wrapped up her second song, watching him leave…

**TT **

The "balcony" doesn't _overlook_ anything as such, but it's designed as a balcony is, and I guess it's very quiet and private. For the moment, I'm glad to the only one out here – although I have the feeling that perhaps Garfield and his new girlfriend might impede on that privacy a little later…

I lean on the rail and put my head in my hands.

It's all there. All these faces, all these names, all these locations. The waitress. The smokes girl. The singer…

Oh yes, that singer…

_Maybe I **am** going insane_…

"I think she liked you."

I whirl, my stance knowledgably taut and defensive; but I find my addressor to be only…

"You know my name," the cigarette girl says pointedly. "_How_?"

"Nametag?" I try hopefully.

She smiles thinly, gesturing at the top part of her uniform.

"I'm not wearing one. _None_ of us cigarette girls do."

"Well, maybe we met someplace before then…"

"I don't think so." She eyes me warily, as though she does not trust me at all. "I do not recognize you."

"There's a thousand people in this city that look like me, I can guarantee you."

_Raven_ crosses the balcony, leaning against the rail, right up next to me. I can see that her smokes tray is now missing from her ensemble, but she's got a packet and a lighter tucked into the waistband of her skirt. She pulls it out now, flipping open the lid and taking one out with her teeth. She offers me the packet. I mean to refuse and take one anyway, thanking her even as I blink at it. She lights her own deftly and offers the lighter to me; I do refuse this time, tucking the cigarette behind my ear.

She smirks, however; and first reaches up to take the unlit cigarette back, simultaneously placing her own lit one between my fingers. She lights up her new one and continues to smile still as I stare at her incredulously.

"Don't look at me like that, copper," she says airily, watching the smoke. "There's some unwritten rule that makes you obliged to have a smoke with a cigarette girl if she offers you one free of charge."

"Is there indeed?" I arch an eyebrow at her and she smirks. She's an amusing one – intelligent, well-educated, I can tell. "And how did you know I was with the police?"

"Nametag." Her expression is deadpan.

I can't help but smile.

"No, really."

"That's the truth, copper."

She gestures at my badge with her cigarette – I tend to wear my GCPD crest on my chest, to the left. Most other guys wear theirs on their belt or even on the band of their hat, Vic and Gar included…

"Right." I absently touch my badge as I watch her. "Well, I'm a detective, not a regular cop."

She regards me with another small smile.

"You don't say…" Her cigarette becomes a demonstrating instrument again as she points lazily at my head. "You'd look more detective-like if you had a hat."

"You saw that, huh?"

"_Everyone_ saw that."

"Hm." I smoke in silence for a little while, the taste of tobacco a bitter comfort. "Does she often do that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Take people's hats?"

"Sometimes. You're not the first she has done it to."

"Ah. Yes."

"You are, on the other hand, the first she has tried to kiss in the middle of a performance."

I arch my eyebrows – slightly pleased by this, and slightly pissed.

"Lucky me."

"Indeed." The cigarette doll seems amused by all of this.

"You know her, then?" I ask offhandedly.

"Yes. She's my room-mate. We share an apartment."

I blink at her.

"Small world," I acknowledge, admittedly surprised by this.

"It is," Raven agrees. " Tara is also a friend of ours. She has a place of her own, though. I heard she is serving you tonight."

"I think she's "serving" _Gar_ more than she is serving me and Vic…" I mutter.

"Are all GCPD members as foul-mouthed as you?" Raven asks nonchalantly.

I think for a second. Bullock has my ass beat; and so does Vic sometimes too.

"Afraid so."

She looks at me for a little while; then shrugs.

"Comes from dirty talking with the criminals, hmm?"

"You could say that."

There's another long period of silence between us – it's not uncomfortable, it's just… _there_.

Eventually she pulls something out from her apron – a small white rectangle and a pen. She scribbles something down and hands it to me.

It's an address.

"Come and get your hat back next time you're passing through, since I don't think she'll be returning it tonight," she says, beginning to walk away. "I'm sorry, I have to get back to work."

"Alright. Thanks."

She looks at me one last time and slips back into the club, leaving me on my own again. I look at the address again, staring hard at it, as though trying to etch every pen stroke into my very mind.

It's written on a slim rectangle of thick card. Curious, I turn the card over.

It says RAVEN.

It's a freaking _nametag_.

**TT **

I guess I kind of reinvented Starfire as a sort of Jessica Rabbit character. She's even pretty much wearing Jessica's dress…

I was going to draw a pic, but I didn't, so… maybe next time!

Thankyou and goodnight!

RobinRocks xXx


	5. Notebook

Whoa, seems like AGES since I updated this puppy… The alerts were down for a while, which is my partial excuse, but… Well, here we are. With _Noir_. Eh heh…

So right now we've met most of the 1948-ified cast. There are still a few more to come, but all the main Titans (plus Terra) are here now, so we can really get the story rolling! Whoo!

Also, yeah… not sure if anyone noticed, but I completely changed the summary of the fic. The other one wasn't very good.

Thankyou to: **RoseXxxXThorn** (glad you like the mystery! It's a crime fic, after all…); **Elihu **(wow, perfect, huh? Why thankyou. And when you say that you have an AU inspired by the same _Batman: TAS_ episode, I guess I can only assume you have figured out which _Batman: TAS_ episode this is based on…); **Quinn and His Quill** (how's THIS for Plot with a capital P, Quinn? Stick some of _that_ in your coffee!); **Laurapen90 **(Starfire _was_ a little OOC last chapter, for a reason which will be explained. But nice spotting! Glad you liked Robin's "Mr Cool to Mr Not-Cool" moment too…); **Luneko **(I hate déjà vu too, it scares me… O.o But I am glad you're interested in that stuff, because it means you will (hopefully) remain interested in my fic!); **Lady Shalafay **(okay, I'm updating this _wicked awesome_ story for you!); **RedXLover **(wow, two "awesomes" in a row! You're too kind!); **Me **(nyes, you're not a big RobinxStarfire fan, are you? Never mind – I think you'll like this anyway…); and **Guardian of Azarath **(sorry to keep you waiting, but here's your update! And Star's dress is _totally_ Jessica Rabbit's, non?).

**This chapter:** Bullock! Aaaaaaaaaaaand… someone else too… :D

Notebook

I jerk awake abruptly to the sound of some kind of dull explosion.

_Maybe another dream—?_

No, the windows are rattling; and I see the dull orange flare die away through the blinds.

_What_ the…?

I grab my alarm clock. It's half past two in the morning.

I slip out of bed, much the way I did last night, and go to the window; grabbing my shirt from the chair and pulling it on as I go. Once again, I push aside the blinds…

…But this time I am not met with a serene, albeit dark and smoky, scene of city night life.

This time I see a pillar of smoke rising from somewhere two blocks over, choking out the moon as it does so.

Already I hear a police siren wailing nearer; and although I am off-duty, as this isn't my shift, I know I have to get down there too.

I can't just go back to bed.

I hurriedly button my shirt halfway up, pull on pants, socks and shoes, throw on my trench; and I'm out the apartment door, letting it slam and echo in my wake. I take the endless flights of metal steps three, four, five at a time; and go charging across the lobby and out into the night. The night clerk shouts something after me, but it is lost to me as I begin pounding down the street, my coat flapping after me like wings – or like a…

…_cape_…

The icy November air grows hotter as I near the scene of the explosion; bitter, drier, making me gasp a little for breath. My eyes widen as I reach it, and I feel my stomach heave. The carnage is terrible – clearly this was a club, although a smaller one than the Batcave. That's mostly likely a blessing – smaller club, smaller number of people, smaller number of casualties… and smaller body count.

The whole front of it is blown out, black and burnt and smoking; and littered with broken and charred pieces of furniture, bent and twisted cutlery, and…

_My g__od_…

The sirens are still wailing behind me, where a beat car is parked up on the curb; and the two uniformed officers are doing their best to keep passers-by calm and back from the scene. It's not doing much good – there's an oppressive sense of panic and terror in the air. They can't believe what they're seeing – _I_ can't believe what _I'm_ seeing.

I can't believe that…

That _what_? That humans could do something like this? Of course I can. Three years ago America was at war; a war started by Britain against a madman, and a war ended only by the use of two of the most effective and horrific weapons known to, created by and used against mankind thus far.

I'm a detective. I deal with death and destruction every day.

I know exactly what humans are capable of; just what lows to which they are willing to sink.

But I'm still having trouble comprehending the scene laid out before me.

I try to push through the surge. I know I'm not allowed on the crime scene, not until after the Explosives Department, the CSI crew and even Homicide get on it first. Only then, when it is cold, stale, days old and has been pawed over by a hundred other people, will Vic and I get our look at it.

Which seems stupid, as I am rightfully the first detective on the scene.

One of the beat cops turns to me as I push out to the front of the crowd, holding out his hand.

"You can't come no further there, pal," he says wearily, his voice hoarse from perhaps shouting, or from the dry air.

I present him with my wallet, taken from my coat pocket and flipped open to show him my badge and license.

He gives me a guilty, disheartened little grin by way of apology.

"You're one of us. Right…" He squints again at my details. "But you're with Criminal Intelligence."

"I know." I slip my wallet back into my inside pocket.

"You're the wrong department to be dealing with this."

"I know." I arch an eyebrow at him, taking out the notebook and pencil I keep in a pocket of my trench at all times. "I just heard the explosion. Any idea what happened?"

The officer adjusts his hat, shaking his head. He looks exhausted but his eyes are wide.

"Jackie an' me didn't see what happened either, detective," he confesses, thumbing over his shoulder at his partner. "We were just patrolling in the car, and then…"

"You got to see some pretty fireworks," I finish, scribbling down his words. "That's okay. But I am going to need the names of you and your partner."

"And why's that, _detective_?"

"Because you were the first on the scene, and I…"

I trail off as I realize that it wasn't my thus-far nameless beat cop who asked that question; nor was it he who so sarcastically intoned my professional title.

I look over my shoulder and find my gaze blocked by a wall of vast chest – adorned by a white shirt, black tie and grey trench.

"I hear they call you "Robin"," Bullock growls at me, "but they should call you "Cuckoo", since you seem so keen on jumping into other people's nests!"

"Detective Bullock." I turn fully to him; Bullock and I are not, to put it mildly, great friends. "Whether what has happened here is relevant to my department or not, as the first detective at the scene, surely it's my duty as such to question witnesses on behalf of those not yet present?"

My legal language usually throws Bullock; and it does here too. But Bullock has his own way of dealing with things, and wastes no time in snatching the notebook out of my hands.

"Well, as you've been so kind as to do my job for me," he snaps, holding it out of my reach; Bullock is taller than most people, it must be admitted. "…You won't mind me taking this then, huh?"

While I openly loathe the man, I can generally keep my cool with him; and so I bite my anger down and smile at him.

"Of course, detective."

"Hm." He blinks at me a bit; clearly he had anticipated my arguing with him. "Well, whatever, Grayson. You've done your bit, and thanks very much. But…"

As he speaks, three more wailing, flashing cars pull up. The rest of Homicide, and no doubt the Bomb Department.

"…As I'm sure you can see," Bullock goes on nastily, "we got all the right people here now, and we'll take it from here. You can flit off back home to your _own_ nest, little birdie."

Still I keep the sickeningly sweet smile in place as I turn to leave.

"Good morning to you too, Bullock."

I walk away from the flaming wreck that was once a club, seething inside; at both Bullock, and the scum who did this in the first place.

And there goes a perfectly good notebook. There's _no way_ I want it back now…

"Good morning?" Bullock shouts after me. "It's still _dark_, ya loon!"

I only smirk as I walk away.

Bullock – grudgingly, I have to admit that, in some ways, he _is_ brilliant.

But in a lot of other ways… he really _isn't_.

There doesn't seem much point in hanging around here. There's nothing for me to do and Bullock will only start laying into me again – not something I really want to deal with at this time of the morning…

So I might as well just go home. There are usually some bars, clubs and even _diners_ open at this time of night, but let's face it – I quite literally just got out of bed and threw on my clothes. I know for a fact that a few of my buttons are in the wrong holes, I'm not wearing a belt or a tie, and I most certainly didn't bother running a comb through my hair before racing out of my apartment.

I'm sure I look stunning.

No, time to go home and back to bed, I think – no matter how unsettled and agitated I am by all of this.

I think briefly for a moment about how great it would be if I was _above_ the rules of law enforcement. If I didn't have to worry about whether my department placing allowed me first dibs on a crime scene, or have to get an arrest warrant to bust up some petty crook. If I didn't _have_ to flash my badge, because people would _know_, just by looking at me, that I was there to save the day…

And then I realize I'm letting that stupid dream get to me again.

I fish out a cigarette and a lighter to accompany me on the lonely walk home. I'm still not keen on this whole habit I have, but at the moment it's comforting.

The streets are silent but for the ever-distant wailing of the police sirens. There's something about it a little unnerving, but I can't place what it might be. Maybe I'm just shaken by the explosion…

I consider for a moment just what could have caused it. It looks as though it was deliberate to me; but I guess the explosives team will figure that out soon enough. That's _their_ job, after all.

I suppose the only thing I can smirk about is the realization that Bullock – if it turns out to have been an accidental explosion – will be taken off the case. An accidental explosion resulting in accidental deaths doesn't count as a homicide—

Guess I'm not really looking where I am going, since I walk slap-bang into someone who gets in my way down a dark narrow alley.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologize hurriedly, backing up a few steps.

I look up at the unfortunate guy I walked into, only to find that I can't see him too well at all. The shadows are so obscure down here, overshadowed and caused by all the skyscrapers and other buildings.

But then he speaks; and I feel my blood drain ice cold at the sound of his voice.

Because there is no denying it…

"You really should be more careful, Robin."

…_Slade_.

As I freeze up, equally aghast and stunned, he steps forward; and the shadows recede.

This man is not from my dream.

He is from my _nightmares_.

And the strangest thing is… he looks no different all. I imagined both people I did and did not know before the instance of the dream – but they were _different_. I created names for them, and looks, and powers, and backgrounds.

Gar was green. Vic was half fantastical robot. And the people I have never met before; the smokes doll, Raven, was telekinetic, the daughter of a demon, born to destroy the world. The singer, Starfire, was the princess of an alien world, with a scheming older sister and a love of mustard. The waitress, Tara, had the ability to shift earth by her will; and she betrayed us.

She betrayed us to _this man_.

Who stands before me now as though he has stepped out of my very _mind_.

He wears a mask. He wears that same metal-and-leather armor-like uniform. He walks the same, he talks the same. He acts like he knows me, speaks to me as though we spoke only recently, and he still calls me _Robin_; and he still says it in the way that I hate so much.

I hate _everything_ he says – but I especially hate the way he says my name.

But how do I _know_ that? How do I _know_ that I hate the way he says my name?

He steps toward me again and I flick my cigarette to the cold ground, clenching my fists almost instinctively.

He laughs softly.

"Those clothes don't suit you," he says, the laugh still present in his patronizing voice. "What exactly do you think you _are_?"

I don't answer his question. I glare at him for a few moments, and then finally bite back;

"Blowing up diners? What would you gain from that?"

He snorts.

"Nothing. That's why I _didn't_."

"Wh…?" I'm floored, mostly because I admit I expected him to nonchalantly confess, the way…

…he always does…?

I shake my head, pulling myself back together.

"Look, whoever you are," I snap, "I'm sure you think screwing with my head is hilarious, but I don't have time for it!"

"Hm." He leans into me, and again, I step back from him almost by second-nature. "What's wrong, Robin? Do you think I'm a figment of your imagination?"

"You aren't _real_." I push past him, furious with both him and myself. "You _can't_ be. How could I _dream_ about someone, and then…?"

"I'm insulted."

"You'll be a lot more than _insulted_ if you don't get the hell out of my face!" I snarl, whirling on him again.

It has no effect on him. It never does.

"What will you do?" He asks tauntingly. "_Arrest_ me, little detective?"

I gaze at him, my eyes burning with rage; shaking, silent.

I don't _believe_ that he is really standing here in front of me. He _can't_ be. I recall blurrily a part of my dream, where I was haunted by this very monster of a man – intent on dragging me down with him. Perhaps he would have liked to have beaten me to death that night. But the _real_ killer was that…

…He hadn't been there all along. Dust. Nervous system. Something. I can't even remember anymore – and certainly not right now. But the point was that Slade, no matter how real he had seemed to me, had never been there at all.

I've been stressed out all day; up the wall over this dream, and the names and faces I keep seeing. My head is aching, and I'm still a little disorientated from leaping up out of bed and running all the way here.

So I don't try to slap the handcuffs on "Slade".

I walk right past him without another glance. He laughs at me, like I expected him to, but I don't give him a backwards glance. I leave him behind and he doesn't follow me.

Which is how it should be.

The line between hero and villain; and the line between dreams and reality.

When I eventually clatter back into my apartment, I lock the door behind me, throw my coat over my chair and fall back onto the bed, still fully-clothed.

And then I sit up again. There's a newspaper sitting on my bedside table – the same one as last night – and I take the sudden notion to…

I grab it. I find some scissors. Suddenly I feel that it would make very good… _wallpaper_…

I'm so tired and trashed as I do it – I can't even read the words, my brain is functioning so slowly. But I cut and cut and cut, until there are scraps of paper all over my lap and the bed and the floor; and then I rummage violently in the drawers for some tape. I locate some and start sticking; soon the wall has become a montage, and it's something that feels familiar to me. Something that feels… _right_.

If anyone were to see me now; sticking newspaper cuttings to my wall at half past three in the morning, they would surely think that I'm mad.

Who knows; maybe I am.

**TT**

"I'm worried about you."

"Well, _don't_ be!" Robin looked up briefly to shoot a fiery glare at Victor. "I'm _fine_, I _said_ I was fine—"

"Then what's all this?!" Vic snapped by way of interruption, banging his hand on the desk. He indicated first to the gradually accumulating pile of newspaper clippings on the desk; then to the newspaper the younger detective was systematically cutting articles out of with shaking hands.

"What are you doing? Vic demanded. "Making a _scrapbook_?"

"Mind your own business!" Robin spat in reply.

"I rather think it _is_ my business, pal, since you are; a.) my partner; and b.) doing it on _my_ side of the desk!"

"It's _fine_," Robin hissed through gritted teeth.

"It is _not_ fine!" Vic grabbed a handful of the cut-outs, leafing through them roughly. "What _is_ all this garbage you're cutting out, anyway?"

"Hey!" Robin protested angrily, standing up suddenly and violently. "Give me those!"

"Ah!" Vic stepped back, holding them out of his reach. "Just hold up. What could _possibly_ be so important…?"

"_Vic_!"

Enraged for a reason that he couldn't quite define, Robin planted his hands on the desk's surface, hoisted his weight upwards, flipped himself right over it and neatly kicked the cuttings right of Vic's hands. He landed lightly on the other side of the desk he had previously been on; as Vic stared at his empty hands, absolutely _stunned_ into silence.

Slowly, he looked up at his partner, his mouth hanging a little open in utter shock.

"What the…?" He squeaked out. "S-since when…? You… you c-could never…"

"_What_?" Robin urged him irritably, bending to pick up his rescued cut-outs.

"_That_!" Vic burst out, grabbing Robin's wrist and hauling him upright again. "Since when are you… some kind of… I dunno, freaking _acrobat_?"

"I'm not." Robin pulled his wrist back. "You know I'm not."

"You _must_ be!" Vic argued. "You must have been training, or… You could _never_ do something like that before."

"I haven't been… _training_, as you put it."

"Dick, people can't just… unless someone _taught_ you, there's no way you could suddenly… suddenly _know_ how to…"

"No-one taught me anything."

"Stop lying to me!" Vic stamped on a rectangular article just as Robin reached for it, making him quickly withdraw his hand. "I don't know what's the matter with you lately, but there's something _seriously_ wrong to make you… _act_ like this!"

"Act like _what_, exactly?" Robin seethed, arguing just for the sake of it now.

He knew there was something wrong with him; of _course_ he did. How could he _not_? It was utterly frying his brain – making his head hurt, rendering him incapable of the simplest thought or action; and, clearly, making him _more_ than capable of feats he had never been known to do before.

Somersaulting over a desk, for example.

But he could look at a page of writing and not be able to comprehend what it said; he could look at the clock or the calendar and not register the time or the date.

And the people. The places. The names.

_Slade_.

And it felt as though something was knocking against side of his skull now – from the inside. Something that word "acrobat" had given birth to. Some kind of image, flashing like a faulty bulb inside his aching head. Something… someone… _falling_…

That, and a sudden drifting scream—

"You alright?" Vic sounded very alarmed, taking Robin's upper arm.

"What?" Robin shook his sore head, blinking up at Vic.

"You just… flinched and put your hands to your forehead, as though… I dunno, like you had a sudden migraine or something…"

"I… I did?" Robin was very puzzled and disorientated now. "I don't… remember…"

Vic was eying him very warily.

"I think you should go down to see Dr Quinzel," he said quietly.

"_I'm not mad_!" Robin snapped in distress, wrenching himself away from his partner.

"I didn't say you were." Clearly Vic thought it, but he didn't voice it. "She can give you some headache pills."

"I don't need them."

Vic folded his arms.

"If you don't go, I'll go for you."

"I don't need _that_ either." Robin pulled right away from Vic and snatched his trench from the hook by the office door. "I don't need _any_ of this…"

"Hey, where are you going?" Vic demanded as Robin wrenched open the door. "Shift's not over yet, and we've got a lot of work to—"

"I'm going out for a bit."

"You _can't_!"

"Watch me."

"Dick Grayson, don't you _dare_ walk out that—"

The door slammed, cutting Vic off. Furious as he was, the mocha-skinned detective knew it was no good going after his partner – even though he could easily catch him, there didn't seem to be any reasoning with him. Better to let him go cool off.

But _really_; Victor Stone just didn't know _what_ had gotten into him.

First that nonsense about some dream in which the both of them, Garfield, and those two broads from the Batcave were superheroes in a dandy little team living in a dandy little tower; then this silly manner concerning people he had never seen before in his life; and now all kinds of erratic behavior – cutting out newspaper clippings for no apparent reason, memory loss, insistence that he was fine when clearly he wasn't…

Vic thought that he had better not make his partner's ill temper worse by throwing away his precious clippings and instead picked up the ones that hadn't made it off the floor yet and put them onto the pile Robin had made. He recognized the one he had stepped on by the faint imprint of his sole and idly glanced at it.

And then he blinked and _stared_ at it.

_Why_ hadn't it dawned on him…?

And did Dick even _realize_…?

There was a sudden knock at the door, making Vic jump slightly. He quickly slapped the clipping down onto the pile as the door winched open.

Dick back already…?

No. Not at all.

"Stone, where's that partner o' yours?" Harvey Bullock asked loudly, banging the door completely open.

Vic looked coolly at the intruding homicide detective.

"You just missed him," he replied icily. "Perhaps _I_ can help you, Bullock?"

"Well, I can't ask _you_ directly about it, but…" Bullock pushed his gray fedora back on his head, scratching at his hairline. "…Guess maybe you're the better person to talk to."

"What do you mean?" Vic asked uneasily.

"Grayson." Bullock pulled out a notebook from his pocket and tossed it across the room to Vic, who deftly caught it. "I'd call Arkham Asylum if I were you, Stone."

That was all he said. He turned and closed the door behind him without another word, leaving a wordless Detective Victor Stone behind him, holding the notebook.

He recognized it as Dick's.

Standing there in silence for a few moments, Vic eventually flipped open the notebook.

Blank page. Blank page. Some figures. Blank page. The beginnings of some notes. Blank page.

And there it was; plain across the page for Vic to read were those four words;

I AM RED X

**TT**

Mwa ha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaa…!

In other news: New art up **DeviantART**! I drew a picture of Starfire and Robin in their Jessica Rabbit and detective duds from last chapter (Starfire is in the dress, not Robin… O.o). to see it, click on my name up there and check out the link to **AvengeroftheAbyss** (mine and Narroch's joint DeviantART) in my profile. It's a little way down. You can also check out the caricatures of Narroch and me that I did (you can see a cartoony version of what we look like, basically) and Narroch's new tattoos…

Oh, and, uh… _review_!

RobinRocks xXx


	6. Fedora

Back at the ranch, I am fairly cracking on with _Noir_, and I think it's going to end up being pretty long. It has nine chapters so far and soon I'll be on ten. Yayz.

Thankyou to: **Guardian of Azarath** (nyes, Slade. We all love Slade… except Robin, of course…); **Narroch **(yup, a plot twist. This is actually beginning to deviate a little from the _Batman: TAS_ episode it is based on. I hope I can get it back on track in time for the conclusion…); **Me **(Robin? Crazy? _Never_!); **Quinn and His Quill **(this isn't based on _Life on Mars_, but I guess you could say it's a similar kind of thing. That was a great show, BTW…); **RoseXxxXThorn **(hey, I know you! You reviewed my friend's fic too – hers is a _Transformation_ rewrite, which I beta for her. Thankye from both of us, Rose!); **GraysonGirl** (interesting fact – did you know that the word "funky" had a _completely_ different meaning in medieval England? Maybe if you're good, I'll tell you next chapter – although maybe you wouldn't want to know… O.o); and **Laurapen90** (_two_ reviews! And one only to say how much you liked one teeny tiny little scene! Thankyou _so_ much! I am really glad you like this fic!).

And now…

Fedora

It's a long walk – but admittedly, it's helped to cool my head.

It doesn't ache so much now either.

And on that note, I don't feel nearly so comfortable without my hat. It's… strange. That I miss it so much, I mean. I feel sort of insecure in its absence – self-conscious, even.

Maybe it's just because a walk down Main Street allows me to see that every other guy out and about in Gotham is wearing a hat.

Fedoras. They're all wearing fedoras. I wonder why – like, who made up the rule that everyone had to wear a hat. A fedora, even. Because every man I see is wearing one. Black. Brown. Tan. Gray. I see one or two white ones too.

No matter their skin colour. No matter their race or roots. No matter their religion.

And a few of them look at _me_ strangely – but I know why that is.

Because I'm not wearing one, and to be honest, I really _should_ be, since my attire is professional. In fact, when the wind blows, it pushes back the lapel of my trench, and my badge flashes in the dull smoky sunlight. I note that a few "gentlemen" distance themselves a little more from me whenever that happens.

Well. This _is_ Gotham City, after all.

It doesn't matter. I don't have the authority to stop and hassle them in the street for no convicted reason – I haven't got a warrant for that.

Besides, they're probably in drugs, theft or prostitution rings. _Busting_ those people isn't my job; I just find the evidence for _others_ to bust them. Me and Vic most likely have files six inches thick on each of them, but without the hard evidence to hand, I can't touch them.

My hands are tied; so they needn't worry.

So I just cruise right on past them like I don't even see them. I must be nearly there by now, anyway. I pull out the little card from my pocket to check again.

Just another couple of blocks.

Yes, I feel underdressed without my hat – so I'm going to go sort that out right now.

**TT**

Apartment 80. It was a long walk, with a lot of steps.

Robin paused for a moment or two to get his bearings – and his breath – when he finally reached the door.

He was hoping that just Raven was home. He wasn't sure if he liked that Starfire girl too much, despite her looks and her "special treatment" of him.

Needless to say, he felt ridiculous trekking all the way up here just to plead for his hat back; but he felt that it would be even _more_ ridiculous to go out and buy a new one when he _had_ one that was fairly new itself and in very good condition apart from the small fact that a nightclub singer had stolen it right off his head.

He rapped the door smartly and stepped back, patting down his windswept hair as he waited for an answer.

It was a long wait, and he had pretty much decided that nobody was home and was about to turn off back down the stairs, still hatless, when the door suddenly opened and a pretty green-eyed face peeped out into the hallway.

_Rats_, was all he could think. Just the girl he _hadn't_ been hoping for…

"Oh!" She blinked a few times, opening the door wider. "It is you, detective!"

He blinked at her himself – her demeanor suddenly seemed… very different…

She seemed to take his surprise at this as surprise that she knew his occupation, for she hurriedly added;

"Raven told me."

He shook his head a little, looking up at her.

"Raven… she, uh… told you _what_?"

"That you are a detective."

"Oh. Right. Yes." He nodded. "Yes, I'm a detective. But don't worry, Miss… Anders, was it?"

She gave a blithe little nod.

"Good. Well, I'm not here to… question you or anything."

"No." She smiled. "I know why you are here, detective."

"You do?"

"Mm hm." She nodded again, her smile unwavering as she opened the door wider. "Please, come in."

"Uh…" He paused for a moment, floundering. "Well, I shouldn't really—"

She hauled him in anyway, mid-sentence, and shut the door.

"We cannot leave you out there in the cold, now can we?" She said happily, clapping her hands together in a way that was very… innocent, almost childish.

Was this _even_ the same girl as the one from last night?

Because although she looked the same, her personality seemed completely different – last night she had been sultry, steamy, sexy, and even a little arrogant; extremely confident in her voice and her dress and her body. The way she had _treated_ him… Despite the fact that a damn sexy broad in a floor-length red dress straddling his lap, her lips so close to his that he could have kissed her, had most definitely been a turn-on, there was no denying that it had also been a belittlement of him on her part. Even without Raven's stating of it, he could have guessed he wasn't the first – or indeed, _last_ – guy she had done it to. That was what she _up_ there for – to _entertain_.

And of course no member of the audience had even the slightest most remote chance of ever getting her. She was an untouchable dream – something behind a shop window.

Acting as though she found the leering advances of the drunken male population in the audience flattering; but to the extent that she was dismissive of them as individuals, quite simply because _everyone_ wanted her, and everyone was making the _same_ leering advances.

Whereas now…

She was dressed in a short sleeveless purple dress, a few silver bracelets jangling at each wrist; and barefoot, with her long red hair free down her back in a shining wave.

She suddenly didn't seem like a sex goddess – even though she _was_ pretty, there was no denying it. But she suddenly seemed more naïve, more friendly, more approachable.

More like the version of her he had dreamt about. The alien girl, with her mustard and her Blorthog ceremony and her slimy pet silk worm.

She was still relatively forceful, however, and lost no time in pushing him into a chair before flouncing away with his trench, which she had practically pulled off his back in his stammering reluctance to remove it, protesting that he was supposed to be on duty (but keeping quiet about the fact that he had actually walked out of his office in a temper).

He sat back, absently fidgeting first with his tie, and then one of his braces, as he surveyed his surroundings. The living room of the apartment was large, with bright, modern décor. The carpet was cream, the walls were white, the furniture – including the chair he was sitting in, in addition to the large couch – were a rich chocolate color, and the coffee table was glass with a black-painted chrome frame.

He also noted – and he didn't have to be a detective to do so – that this apartment was clearly occupied by two females rather than even only one male. It was practically spotless, and every surface gleamed; the only flaws were the pair of killer heels he had seen Starfire wearing during her performance at the Batcave beside the couch and a slender, leather-bound book perched on the coffee table. The latter was the only occupant of said coffee table, bar an empty crystal ashtray.

Looking at that made him want a cigarette himself and he began to conduct a search through his pockets in hope of a lone forgotten one. During this time (though he consequently came up empty-handed) Starfire returned, carrying a small silver tray, on which was a coffee pot and two glass coffee cups.

"Do you take milk?" She asked him, blinking those huge green eyes at him.

"Oh, no. No, black is… black's just fine…" he replied, struggling to find his tongue (as well as a cigarette).

"Sugar?"

"No." He watched her pour it into the small cup and hand it across to him. "Thanks."

His hand was shaking a little as he placed it down on the arm of his chair. Was it just his sudden insatiable need for a cigarette, or was it… something else?

She took her own cup – milky, sweet – over to the couch and curled up there, folding her legs up beneath her body as she gazed intently at him. There was a bout of silence between them as they both sipped their coffee for a while and tried to think of a conversation-starter that didn't begin with "So…", wasn't about the horrible Gotham weather or wasn't completely idiotic in any other kind of way. Clearly this was harder than either of them would have suspected, for the aforementioned bout of silence was a long one.

"I… I like your tie," she said finally, daring to break it. She nodded at the garment in question; red.

Robin was the only detective in the GCPD to wear a red tie.

Everyone else, they wore black. They wore gray. They wore burgundy, deep blue, bottle green. Patterns – checks, paisley, little squiggles.

But no-one but Detective Dick Grayson wore red.

"Thankyou," he said in reply, not sure what else to say in reference to the tie.

There was another long moment of clear, overbearing silence.

"I… I suppose I should apologize to you," she said after another while, looking up at him a little shyly. "For my behavior towards you last night, I mean to say. It was most… disrespectful."

"Oh. Well…" Robin didn't really have an answer for that, since it _had_ been. Sitting on someone's lap and stealing their hat was _not_ the best way to make someone be your friend…

"That's alright," was his final, awkward answer. "It doesn't matter."

"It does." Her eyes were large and sorrowful. "It does to me. I felt bad all night, especially since you felt the need to leave the club almost immediately afterwards."

"That… didn't have anything to do with you." Well, he wasn't _completely_ lying…

She smiled.

"You are most kind to lie to amend my guilt."

"I'm not lying!" He said indignantly.

She actually giggled a little, still gazing at him.

"Well, whatever your reasons, I am sorry for the way I treated you. It was most unkind of me to single you out like that when you clearly did not want my attention."

"Oh. Uh…"

He looked down at his half-drank coffee, floored. _What_ did he say in this situation? Accept her apology, therefore agreeing that he _hadn't_ wanted her attention (and thus would surely offend her…); or insist that no apology was needed, he _had_ actually wanted her straddling his lap, and thus risk making her think he was another of those creepy perverts that lounged down in those places?

Better to lay it on thick, perhaps.

"It wasn't that I didn't _want_ your attention," he said sweetly; "it just seemed so unfair that you only singled _me_ out to make actual physical contact with, in an entire roomful of people…"

"Oh." She seemed to buy it, flushing slightly pink as she looked down too. "Well, there was… there was a reason for that, Detective Grayson."

"Oh?" He actually leaned forwards now, interested beyond his professional standing. ""And, um… you can call me "Dick", by the way. That's my name."

She nodded distractedly.

"I… the reason I…" She looked up again, seemingly lost for words. "I suppose… there just seemed to be something _different_ about you. Something that drew me to you."

_What? Insane vibes?_

She looked down again.

"I suppose… that is not really a very good reason…"

"Not really."

But he laughed. He couldn't help it; and when she heard him laugh, she looked up – and then she started to giggle too.

Although maybe it was a little forced, since it didn't last long on either part; trailing away to hiccoughing giggles and then nothing at all but a sort of embarrassed clearing-of-throats.

"Oh… god, uh…" Robin massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I don't… really know what I'm doing here…"

"You came for your hat." She stood quickly. "I shall fetch it for you."

"N-no, I meant…"

But she was gone. He sipped distractedly at his coffee, wondering how best to make his escape without seeming like a complete idiot.

Although maybe it was too late for that, in retrospect…

When she came back, she had his fedora in one hand, and a slender silver cigarette case in the other. She handed him the hat, and then knelt beside his chair and opened the case, offering it him.

He smiled at her bemusedly.

"How did you know?"

She gave a small shrug of her slender shoulders.

"I did not. But you seem… tense. I thought perhaps…"

"I should… relax…" He took one, turning it over in his fingers as he watched her take one for herself and snap the case closed again. "You… don't look like the smoking type, Starfire."

She blinked at him.

"That is not a name I go by when I am not working," she said, sounding a little incredulous. "And I do not smoke regularly."

"Uh…" He was brought up short by her first statement. "Yes, of course… I'm sorry, Miss Anders."

"You can call me Starfire if you wish," she said quickly. "It is just that you… are the first person to have ever done so."

"Yeah. I, uh… I don't know why I…"

She slowly rose, reaching up for a lighter on the mantelpiece; then sat on the arm of his chair and leaned down towards him so that she could light his cigarette. The flame, in the close proximity, made her gold skin glow, as though an inner fire burned within her…

Power; alien, perhaps…

He grasped her wrist as she took her hand away again, making her jump. Taking his cigarette from his mouth, he fixed his gaze on her intently.

"_Why do they call you Starfire_?" He asked in a low voice.

She blinked at him again, clearly perplexed.

"I… am not sure of the origin of the name. My agent, Marv, came up with it. He said it sounded… as though I was from a world beyond this." She pulled her wrist away. "It is a hook for my audience. Why do you care to know?"

"I… I just…" He took a desperate drag on his cigarette; then flounced up, frustrated all over again for no real reason. "Oh, I couldn't possibly explain it…!"

"Please…" She put a hand on his shoulder. "Is it something I have done…?"

"No, _no_…" He gave a frustrated groan, shaking her off. "Look, I can't explain. It's all… I don't even understand it myself."

He crossed the floor to the window, where he stood, looking out and down at Gotham City sprawled below. Apartment 80 was on the twentieth floor of the apartment building, giving a good view of the cityscape.

There lay all the city-marks he recognized.

City Hall. Arkham Asylum. The GCPD precinct building. Wayne Enterprises, owned and run by Lt-in-Chief Bruce Wayne's father, Thomas Wayne.

…_wait_…

"Thomas Wayne."

Robin looked over his shoulder at Starfire, who was gazing at him, her cigarette burning away to nothing between her fingers as instead she gazed at him, as though not quite sure what to make of either him or his behavior.

"Yes?"

"He's… still alive?"

Starfire nodded, wide-eyed.

"Yes, of course. In fact, he was in yesterday's paper. He has just given the funding for a new sister company building to start construction."

He sighed, looking away from her again.

"None of this makes any sense…"

"You _wish_ for Mr Wayne to be deceased?"

"What?" He rubbed at his forehead. "_No_."

His thoughts were no longer even _on_ Thomas Wayne. If Bruce Wayne's parents were still alive, then…

A sudden great weight seemed to lift from his heart, despite all his confusion and frustration at the blurred mess of dreams and reality he found himself wading through.

His parents' deaths… had been a part of the dream world.

Which meant – and it hadn't crossed his mind until this very moment – that they were…

He turned away from the window with sudden renewed vigor, passing her as he strode towards the hallway.

"I have to go," he told her hurriedly, grabbing up his fedora on the way out.

"Where?" Starfire asked, looking devastated even though there was no real… _reason_ for her to be. She followed him out into the hall. "Why must you leave so hastily?"

"I have to…" He paused, snatching his trench from the hook she had put it on. "…I gotta get back to work. I shouldn't… I mean, I shouldn't even be here…"

"I…" She gazed forlornly at him as she pulled his trench coat back on; then grasped his arm as he reached for the door catch. "I wish to… see you again…"

He was taken aback; and thus it took him a little while longer than it would have usually to pull free.

"You… you will…" He put his hands on her shoulders, as though to reassure her. "I'll come… come see you, in the club…"

"When?"

"Soon," he promised wildly. "But… I have to go now. Thanks for the hat…"

She gave a reluctant little nod and he removed his hands, opening the door and leaving the apartment.

She leaned out after him as he started quickly down the stairs.

"Soon?" She echoed.

"I promise!" He called back.

But his mind was on other things now; because he'd already promised _himself_ something else…

**TT**

Just to hear their voices; after what seems like an eternity…

My heart is hammering, and I have to ask myself in advance… will I _cry_ when I hear them?

Because one part of me knows that they've been there all along – but the other part, the part that seems to have the most control over me at the moment, is still convinced that they've been dead for eight whole years…

I creak open the door to our office and peek in around it; and breathe a small sigh of relief.

Vic isn't there.

I go in, not bothering to shut the door fully or take off my coat and hat as instead I grab the phonebook from Vic's side of the desk and start rifling through it.

_G, Gr, Gra…_

There aren't many Graysons, I find. Only a handful. It's an English name – so rare here in America.

There they are. _Grayson, J and M_.

I reach for the telephone and lift the receiver, punching the number into the circular dial. I can hear the distant, tinny ringing of the device as I wait with ever-bated breath for someone to pick up.

It's a long while, and I'm almost about to put down the phone again, disappointed; when I hear the click.

And then, the voice I swear, or it seems… that I last heard _screaming_, cut off only by the thud and the crunch—

"Hello?"

It's her. I would recognize her voice anywhere. Mary Grayson.

My mother.

I pause; I desperately want to speak to her, but my voice sticks in my throat. Must be the sudden lump there, blocking it…

"Hello?" She says again. "Who's there?"

I force it out, even though it comes out a little squeaky;

"…Mom?"

"Dick?"

I open my mouth again; and suddenly there's another click. The line goes dead and I blink, taking the receiver from my ear.

_What the…?_

I follow the coiled cord back the main body of the phone itself – and find a finger pressed down on the hook, which explains why the connection was terminated.

"_Vic_!"

I look up angrily, all set to leather into my partner; and find that the application of that particular name was very wrong indeed.

Speak of the devil and he will rise, so to speak.

Lieutenant-in-Chief Bruce Wayne lifts his finger again, only to point it at me.

He speaks only four words;

"Grayson. My office. Now."

Guess dear old _Cyborg_ ratted me out after all.

**TT**

Eh heh heh heh…

Next chapter: Bruce! And Harley Quinn! Yes, _that_ Harley Quinn!

Oh, new _Noir_ pic over at DA, featuring all five original Titans, plus Terra and… a surprise. Link is in the usual place (on my profile).

Thankyou to all readers/reviewers!

RobinRocks xXx


	7. Clipboard

Wow. I have to say, this fic is doing _much_ worse than _Nevarmore_. I am extremely surprised. I thought it would be the other way around. My reviews are dwindling! Come back, reviewers! Chapters 2 and 3 had ten each – last chapter, _Fedora_, only had 6. And I'm surprised, since… well, that was kind of the proper start of the RobinxStarfireness, and…

I mean, 6 is still good! I'm not being ungrateful – I just wonder where everyone else has gone. And I thought this would be a relatively popular type of AU, but… obviously not…

Thankyou to reviewers: **GraysonGirl** (funky? You sure you want to know? Okay, in the Medieval times in England, "funky" meant the same thing as the notorious "c" word. And no mistake there… O.o Also… Harley!); **Quinn and His Quill** (_Scooby Doo_ didn't come out until the Sixties, so there! Smart ass…); **Guardian of Azarath** (that's an _excellent_ theory, dude, but as before… I'm not going to just _tell_ you, _am_ I?); **AlsoSprachOdin** (why thankyou very much:D I swear I've seen your name before, BTW, but… I clicked on your name and you don't have anything on your profile, so… I can't have. Weird… O.o); **Laurapen90** (ah, you return again. I am glad. Speedy is NOT Starfire's boyfriend in this, you'll be pleased to hear! I wonder where people get that too…); **Me** (his hat like his mask? Uh, sure, I guess… even though I've drawn both pieces of _Noir_ art on DA with Robin wearing his mask, he is not actually wearing it in the fic…); **Stargirl7** (who didn't review on here, but you dropped me a DA note to say you liked it, and I'm hoping you'll be back to read more, so… hello!); and **Narroch** (who also didn't review… and, uh, has kind of vanished… but WHEN you finally get around to reading this, I think you're gonna recognize it from the _Batman: TAS_ episode in question…).

Yeah, to reinstate, this fic takes inspiration mostly from an episode of _Batman: The Animated Series_, the title of which I have not yet revealed; but other noteworthy sources include an _Angel_ episode called 'Are You, Or Have You Ever Been?', _LA Confidential_ (excellent movie…), _The Number 23_, and a few other random things like _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ and _Dick Tracy._

Oh, yeah, two other tiny things I forgot to mention last time: Starfire and Raven's apartment number is 80, simply because both of those characters first appeared in 1980; and Starfire's manager is called 'Marv', after Marv Wolfman. George Perez gets a mention later on…

Clipboard

"I don't understand."

Detective Dick Grayson's fingers curled on the desk, clenching into tight fists; as he glanced from Lieutenant-in-Chief Bruce Wayne to Dr Harleen Quinzel and then back again.

"No, detective." Quinzel shook her head, a few stray strands of blonde hair from her bun wisping after the movement. "It's _we_ who don't understand." She leaned forward, peering at him hard over her glasses. "And I studied for quite a number of years to get to where I am."

Robin shot her an odd look.

"I'm glad you're making a success of yourself," he said finally, his voice impassive.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Detective Grayson," Wayne growled, straightening his tie slightly.

Robin looked up at him.

"Well, I don't understand why I'm _here_!" He snapped frustratedly.

"Then perhaps," Wayne replied, his voice low and even a little dangerous, "your partner, Detective Stone, is the crazy one; yes, and he _imagined_ all this about you obsessing over a silly dream, and—"

"I'm not _crazy_!" Robin yelled, banging his hand on the desk.

"_Grayson_!" In an instant, Lt Wayne was on his feet and leaning over the desk towards the Criminal Intelligence detective. "Do _not shout_ at your superiors!"

A heated, fiery glare passed between them – static practically crackling and sparking from the friction and intensity, as though the meeting of their eyes concealed something deeper; an oppression, a frustration, a resentment…

"Gentlemen, _please_." Quinzel rapped her clipboard on the desk to get their attention; at which Wayne sank back into his seat and Robin looked away from him, still fuming. "Thankyou," she added politely when she got the silence she had desired.

A quick glance over her shoulder told Lt Wayne not to interfere again.

"Now," she went on, clasping her hands together and once again fixating her piercing gaze on the young detective across the desk from her. "I'll start from the top, and let's hope you understand me better this time. Your partner, Detective Victor Stone, came to me only a few hours ago, expressing his extreme concern for you."

"He doesn't—" Robin started angrily, hugely affronted.

"Understand?" Quinzel interrupted, finishing his sentence for him. She gave a cold little laugh. "He understands a great deal more than you give him credit for, detective. I think you have unconsciously left him a lot of clues, all of which…"

She gestured with her arm across the desk; spread upon which were a great many things that Robin recognized.

"…He has brought here to me to examine," she finished, watching him intently.

Robin looked up at her sullenly.

"And…?"

"_Grayson_," Wayne said warningly. "You're on _incredibly_ thin ice as it is…"

"I can handle this, Bruce," Quinzel replied stiffly, even though his words had not been addressed to her. Still her gaze did not waver from the defiant young man sitting across the desk from her. "Detective, you know as well as I do that the GCPD plays a pivotal role in the wellbeing of Gotham City. Both Commissioner Gordon and Lt Wayne right here need _every last one_ of their personnel to be capable of doing their job to the very best of their ability. _I_ am employed here to ensure that _every last one_ of those personnel is mentally capable of doing so. Now, please understand that we are not singling you out because we dislike you; and also that your partner has reported your behavior not out of spite, but out of pure concern. The blunt fact is, Detective Grayson, that if you are not mentally capable of doing your job due to other things consuming your mind, you _will_ be suspended from your duties until you _are_ capable of doing them. The GCPD cannot afford for its heroes to be living in another world – not when _this_ is the world that so badly needs saving. Am I making myself clear to you?"

Robin nodded, utterly wordless.

"Good." Quinzel nodded curtly, satisfied thus far. "Therefore, I think you will agree with me that it is best you cooperate with me now. Neither I nor Lt Wayne wish to see you suspended for any given time; and especially not at this time, when we have the Brother Blood homicide case and the bombing on a downtown Gotham nightclub only last night to look into. We need you to do your job, but more importantly, we need you to be _capable_ of doing your job; and the reason you are _here_ is because, quite frankly, from what Detective Stone has both told and shown me, I don't think you _are_ capable at this time."

Robin opened his mouth, but still no words came out at all.

"So…" Quinzel rested her chin in one palm, raising an eyebrow at the floored CI detective. "…Shall we disprove my theory?"

Robin nodded, still speechless.

And to think he, Vic, Gar and Roy had sat around in Roy's office once night six months ago, drinking Billy Ds and laughing at the very idea of the "new woman psychologist" upstairs.

Quinzel flipped to a fresh page in her clipboard and poised her pen.

"Tell me, then, about your dream."

Pausing every now and then to steal a quick glance at Lt Bruce Wayne, who was listening to his every word with a weird expression on his face, Robin compacted and retold most of the facts of his strange heroic dreamworld; slipping out a few more embarrassing details here and there. For example, Lt Wayne did not need to know that he had been reworked in his dream as a broken, obsessed billionaire in a bat costume.

"And was this dream all in one 'session'?" Quinzel pressed on when he finally trailed to a halt, somewhere in the middle of explaining the reason why the alien girl had almost married a repulsive floating slime creature. "Or was it a recurring dream state, created, in its entirety, over several nights?"

"No." Robin shook his head. "Only one night."

She raised her eyebrows but did not look up from her scribbling.

"That's an abnormally disturbed sleep pattern for only one night," she acknowledged. "On average, detective, a normal, healthy sleeper "wakes up" between fifteen and thirty-five times a night. But for your dream, as you call it, to have had so many different elements, many completely unconnected to one another but for the reoccurrence of these characters… That would describe an absolutely abnormal sleep pattern. Unconscious awakening, as is normal in humans, would most certainly "reset" your thought stream, resulting in the different "adventures" you described to me; but to have conjured these changes you described, you would have to have awoken… well, perhaps bordering on one hundred times that night."

Robin shook his head blankly.

"I… don't understand what you mean."

"No." Quinzel absently brushed a strand of gold hair behind her ear. "That is to be expected, since I have a degree in this subject and you don't. But alright – we'll move away from the subject of the plausibility of your "dream". Detective Stone said that your main "problem" with this dream was that you placed friends and colleagues into it; and not only this, but people you claim to have never seen before in your entire life."

"Yes." Robin could practically _feel_ the odd look Bruce Wayne was casting in his direction. "There was a girl… two, no…" He paused, massaging his forehead. "Wait, three. Three girls. They were in my dream. They had powers, like… one was an alien, one could move earth, one was telepathic. And I… I'd never seen them before. I swear to you, I never saw them before in my life."

"And yet…?"

"I've _seen_ them." Robin leaned across the desk, his voice low and harassed. "They're _real_, and I've _met_ them since having that dream, and…" He put his head in his hands. "Can you explain _that_, doctor?"

"Perhaps not as satisfactorily as you would like," Quinzel admitted, "but I will say this; from what Detective Stone told me, this "dream" of yours had been having a negative effect on you before you met even the _first_ of these girls. The only thing I can therefore surmise is that your mind has substituted an identity for these girls because they _seem_ familiar to you. Dreams are a complicated thing, Detective Grayson. I am sure you are aware that we do not even _remember_ most dreams that we have at night. And since _I_ did not have this dream which you have described to me yourself, I could not possibly say that it is indeed these _very_ girls that you saw."

Robin lifted his face from his hands, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I am saying that perhaps… you just _think_ you saw these particular girls. You've manifested the personas from your dream onto these three young women, because… well, because subconsciously, you _want_ to."

Robin stood up angrily.

"Why the _hell_ would I—?"

"_Grayson, sit down!_" Wayne too was on his feet, banging a hand on the desk.

"_Both_ of you sit down," Quinzel reinstated coldly, not looking up from her clipboard. "Bruce, if you're going to disrupt me, perhaps you should leave."

Wayne sat down again silently, seething; and motioned wordlessly for Robin to follow suit. The detective took his time in doing so, half expecting Wayne to shout at him again; and indeed, he looked as though he would most certainly have _liked_ to. But he didn't, and after a moment, Quinzel looked up again.

"Thankyou, gentlemen," she said, her Bronx-tinted voice a little mocking. "Detective Grayson, I think I may have an answer to your dilemma, but before I do, I must question you over a few more things brought to my attention by Detective Stone."

Robin nodded silently, still _furious_ with Vic over this.

"I want you to tell me about these things," the psychologist went on; she pushed towards him a few items.

A few newspaper cuttings. A sheet of notebook paper. A crumpled drawing.

He looked at them; and then looked up at her blankly.

"You recognize them?" She asked, after he offered nothing.

"I… yes," he replied finally.

"Good," she encouraged. She picked up the drawing and held it up. "Stone informed me that you threw this in the trash yesterday after Detective Garfield Logan, of Crime Scene Investigation, saw you drop it and wanted to know what it was. Now, both Stone and I have drawn our own conclusions by looking at it, but I want you, as the artist, to tell me what this is."

Robin studied it for a long moment.

Yes. The drawing he had surprised himself with; for indeed he hadn't known he could draw that well.

It was a simple yet accurate caricature. A boy in a mask, with spiked hair. With metal-soled boots and a cape and an "R" insignia on his chest.

"That's… what I looked like in my dream," he admitted finally. "As a superhero. As a… _Teen Titan_…"

Quinzel nodded.

"Just one distinctive thing I noticed…" She pointed first at the drawing – the red shirt – and then moved her gaze and finger up to the real Robin's crimson tie. "You're the only member of the GCPD who wears a red tie. It's something of a little trademark for you – something that makes you a little different. And the drawing… the shirt is red. Any relevance, do you think?"

Robin shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know, doctor. It's just a stupid drawing I did from memory. I don't… _know_ anything about it…"

"Those were my thoughts. Good." She put the drawing down and turned her attention to the newspaper clippings. "These cuttings. _Why_?"

Robin shrugged helplessly.

"I… I don't know," he replied. "I don't know why I was cutting them out. I just felt as though I should."

Quinzel sifted through them.

"None of them are connected," she acknowledged. "They're all just random."

"Yes."

"There is one, however, that particularly caught your partner's attention; and I can most certainly understand why." She held up the cutting in question. "I am not sure where you're aware or not, detective, but this is an article about the new sister company building the director of Wayne Enterprises, Lt Wayne's father Thomas Wayne, has just given permission and a grant to. The title of the company is Titan Enterprises, and the building therefore will be called none other than…"

"…_Titans Tower_," Robin whispered.

Quinzel shot him a grim a little smile.

"Were you really paying attention, or was that just a guess?"

"A guess," Robin replied, his mouth suddenly very dry. "H-how… how do you explain _that_, Doctor Quinzel?"

"Easily," she answered smoothly. "You may be certain that you have never heard the name of the building project before, but it's been on the radio and in the papers for months now. Not extensively, I admit, which is probably why you think you haven't heard it before. But I can assure you that you most likely have, and subconsciously it was stored in your memory; and therefore found its way into your dream."

She replaced the clipping on the desk and took up the last item; the notebook sheet.

"This is from your notebook, which was, until fairly recently, I hear, in the possession of Detective Harvey Bullock, of Homicide. And this page is, in fact, the reason that Bullock returned the notebook to your partner. It says, in your writing, "I AM RED X". I would like you tell me what that means, please, detective."

Robin stared at her, speechless. _Red X_? What the hell was _that_?

"Grayson, Dr Quinzel asked you a question," Wayne said, after Robin spent too long (for his liking) being speechless.

"I… I don't…" Robin looked from the page to Quinzel to Wayne and then back again. "I don't remember… ever _writing_ that, or… I don't know what, or who, Red X is. I swear to you, I don't."

But Dr Quinzel smiled.

"That's alright," she said finally placing the sheet down. "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

Robin was incredulous; he had been half-expecting her to tell Bruce Wayne that it was no good, they'd simply have to send him to Arkham Asylum, since he was clearly mad and deluded.

"No." Still Quinzel grinned at him. "I think I can see your problem. It's okay, detective. Your behavior these past few days certainly won't have won you any "Best Detective" awards, but you're not mad. What you're going through is actually more common than you might think."

"_What_ is?" Robin pressed.

Quinzel leaned back in her chair, pulling her blonde hair out of its bun and shaking it loose around her shoulders. And then, as she watched Detective Grayson's knuckles whiten as his fists clenched tighter and tighter, she took the time to pull it into a ponytail. When she was done, she placed her hands flat on the desk and gazed hard at him.

"Tell me, detective," she said, after a further long, tense moment of silence. "Are you entirely satisfied with your life?"

The question completely threw him off and he stared at her, nonplussed.

"Wh-what? I… I don't…"

"Alright, that was a little general," she admitted with a sigh. "Let's talk about your job. You're obviously in the police because you _want_ to be. I would be right in guessing that, hm?"

He nodded.

"But I've looked at your records," she went on, "and I know that when you applied to the GCPD, you did not go for the job title which you were subsequently awarded. That is, you didn't apply to be a Criminal Intelligence officer."

"No."

"No. That's right. You applied to the Homicide Department."

"Yes."

"And it's a well-known fact that the Homicide Department gets more… "action", shall we say, than any other department. Any thrill-seeker would perhaps feel more at home there than _in_ any other department. Tracking down criminals and booking them for their crimes against society. Being… well, a _hero_, I suppose."

Her blue eyes pierced his.

"Obviously, Detective Grayson, that was what you _wanted_. But it's not what you _got_. Now, we've talked before. I've got your records. I've seen the way you interact with both your colleagues and your superiors. I know how you behave; and I must say… While you are _capable_ of being a team player, you have a dominant tendency. You are rigid within your own viewpoint, expect others to bend _to_ your viewpoint, and are openly resentful of taking orders from others."

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I hope you don't mind me pointing out these flaws in your character. It's for a good cause, I promise."

He shook his head wordlessly.

"Thankyou," she said with a little smile. "Let me just make one last point; I said that you resent taking orders from others. I don't think you can argue with that – but it doesn't just extend to other members of GCPD. I think, detective, that you have a bit of a problem with _rules_. You don't like to do things by the rulebook; you prefer your own ways. And while the assertiveness in you is admirable, detective, you can't play by "My way or the highway" rules in this profession. Lt Wayne will back me up on that, I'm sure."

Bruce Wayne gave a grim little nod; but Robin ignored him.

"To make an example," Quinzel continued, "just one of the reasons your partner came to me today is because you stormed out on him in the middle of your shift. Now, you _know_ that leaving the GCPD Precinct premises unless you have a pass or warrant is against employee policy. And yet… you did it anyway; and without hesitation, by the sound of it."

Robin opened his mouth; but Quinzel held up her palm.

"Save it, bud. I don't want to hear excuses. It's just an example of your apparent disdain for rules; you behave almost as though you think that they don't exist. That even, _in_ this police force, you can do what you like, as long as it benefits the greater good. Which, I am sorry to tell you – although I am sure I don't _need_ to tell you – you _can't_. However…"

She looked down at her clipboard for a moment or two.

"Your neurotic behavior draws some interesting parallels between your real life and your dream. And "dream" is used sparingly, Grayson, because… I do not think it _was_ a dream, as such. I think it is an illusion you have created in your mind over a period of time; one that you have repressed during your conscious hours up until this point. It's far too complex to have been one single dream, I promise you."

"An… illusion?"

Quinzel nodded.

"Consider. It's an illusion that your mind has created as an outlet for your frustrations. In the real world, you're a detective in a job title you didn't even want, and one that restricts you; your hands are tied by rules and regulations, you have people above you giving you orders, and you long for more than what you have. Then consider your parallel dream world. In this world, you're the leader of a team of young people such as yourself, where you fight crime without rules and superiors. Everyone recognizes you as a hero, your life is action-filled and satisfying, and the futuristic setting which you described obviously represents the freedom you want. If it is today's society and rules that restrict you, then a different "time zone" would free you from those. What it comes down to, detective, is that you don't feel that you are being challenged or pushed as much you would like to be; so you've created this other world where you are a stronger, freer person with a far more challenging lifestyle. Do you understand?"

He nodded slowly.

"But… there are other things," he said finally. "In my… illusion, my parents were dead… Why would I want that?"

"I didn't say you _wanted_ to live this other life," Quinzel reminded him. "I said it was a frustration outlet. _Do_ you want to live this other life?"

Robin considered it for a while, silent.

"No," he said finally. "I can see its good points; I can see _why_ I created some of it, but…_This_ is my life."

Quinzel smiled.

"Then _live_ it, detective."

"How do I get rid of the illusion?"

"By accepting that it _is_ an illusion. By being happy with your own life, and who you are. If you can do that, then "Robin", and "Red X", and everything else that you told me… it will all go away."

Robin felt as though a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his chest; he smiled at Dr Quinzel and stood up.

"Thankyou, doctor," he started, watching her scribble in her clipboard again. "I—"

"Here," she interrupted, tearing off the page she had been writing on and thrusting it out towards him. He took it, confused.

"What's this?"

"It's a pass," she said. "Take the rest of the day off, detective. Go sort your head out, make yourself happy with your life, and come back tomorrow to do your job properly."

He grinned; he suddenly knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his day.

"Thanks, doctor."

She waved her hand at him.

"Go on, get out of here…"

He took his pass and left, shutting the door behind him with a confident click.

Dr Harleen Quinzel started to neaten up her papers; gathering up the cuttings, notebook sheet and Robin's drawing and slipping them into a half-full manila folder with "Grayson, Richard John – Detective, Dept. 38 (Criminal Intelligence)" written on the front in her neat print.

"You handled him well," Lt Wayne said after a while. "I thought he was going to be difficult about it."

"I think he was certainly preparing himself to be," Quinzel replied. "He has a dangerous streak in him, Bruce. I can see it in him. Fortunately, he is not the first like that I have seen. I've dealt with his kind before." She grinned. "Poor tormented little flower, huh?"

Bruce smiled thinly and stood.

"He's an interesting one, Harley. A little training, and… well, who knows?"

"Thinking about training him yourself?"

Bruce snorted.

"Don't count on it. He might have potential, but I can't say I like him much. We don't have anything in common at all."

Quinzel glanced briefly at the notebook sheet; with I AM RED X scrawled across it.

"It wouldn't take much to taint him, you know."

"Well…" Bruce paused at the door, his hand on the brass knob. "_If_ that ever happens, Harley… _I'll_ be the one to put a bullet in his skull."

He too left; and Harleen Quinzel rested her chin in her hands, rolling her blue eyes.

"Fruitloops, the whole lot of ya…"

**TT**

"Hey, look, man. I'm sorry I had to do it, okay?"

It was the first thing Detective Victor Stone said as the door opened and his partner walked into the office. He was sitting at the desk with a pile of paperwork, a cup of coffee and a box of donuts.

But Robin was smiling.

He smiled as he shut the door, smiled as he shrugged off his trench, smiled as he put his pass down on the desk, and smiled as he picked up the phone book and started to leaf through it again.

Said nothing; only smiled.

"Uh… are you alright?" Vic asked eventually, floored. "You haven't been down to Roy in the Narcotics Department and raided the safe, have you?"

"What?" Robin finally looked up from the phone book. "No."

"Uh, well…" Vic examined his donut with exaggerated interest. "You just got dragged down to Quinzel's office because… well, because I went down to see her after you stormed out, and I figured… well, that you'd be mad an' all…"

"I am," Robin replied cheerfully. "I'm _furious_ that you went behind my back like that."

"Then how come you're acting like you're in Happy Rainbow Land, dancing with elves and magic frogs?"

Robin shook his head at the strange anecdote.

"_Because_, Vic… as angry as I am, I realize that you did me a favor. She explained everything to me."

"…_Everything_?"

"The dream. Only, she said it wasn't a dream; it was more like an illusion my mind created itself as a frustration outlet…"

He sighed when Vic only looked blankly at him, still leafing through the phonebook.

"Look, don't worry. The point is that I feel much better now. I don't feel so confused and crazy, and… I guess I owe you that. Because I wouldn't have gone down to see her myself, I admit that, and… well, however underhanded it was, I really should thank you. So…" He looked up at his partner and smiled at him. "_Thankyou_, Victor."

Vic hesitated for a moment, as though he thought that maybe his partner was playing a vicious trick on him; but finally accepted that he meant it, and grinned in return.

"That's alright, man. Just don't call me "Cyborg" again."

"Done." Robin found the page he was looking for and ripped it out. "Anyway, I got the rest of the day off, so…"

Vic snorted into his coffee, clearly outraged.

"Say _what_?" He demanded. "That's raw, man! You break the rules, storm out, and you get rewarded with the day off?"

Robin beamed.

"Try acting crazy, Vic. Apparently it works…"

"Hey, you promise you're gonna _stop_ acting crazy? Start playing by the rules a bit more?"

"Sure."

"So what are you going to _do_ with your _wonderful_ day off?" Vic asked, his voice not entirely devoid of bitterness. "Go visit that girl again?"

"Sorry?" Robin looked up innocently, but Vic only smirked.

"Don't play dumb with me, Dick. I can see that you _miraculously_ have your hat back."

Robin felt his cheeks flush pink, but shook his head.

"Nice detective work, Vic, but… no, I'm not going to go visit Starfi… I mean, Miss Anders again." He held up the phonebook sheet. It was a list of addresses. "I'm gonna go visit my parents."

Vic smiled.

"Yeah. That'll be nice. You haven't seen them for a while, huh?"

"No. It…" Robin looked at the address, his voice soft. "It seems like it's been _years_…"

"Surely it was only Fourth of July?"

"Probably." Robin folded the sheet and slipped it into his pocket; then retrieved his hat, trench and pass, snagging a donut out of the box on the desk as he passed. "Hey, you want to eat together tonight?"

"Sure. We'll round up Gar. Maybe Roy."

Robin nodded.

"Okay, see you later."

He reached for the door handle; but the door itself suddenly banged open just as his fingers closed around it, the edge of it catching him squarely in the chest and throwing him to the floor on his back.

"What the _hell_—?" Vic leapt to his feet, just as Garfield Logan staggered through the door into the office.

He was wide-eyed, his coat buttoned up wrongly and his hair disheveled. He was a little out of breath too, and clutched at his side as though trying to ease a severe stitch.

Robin sat up with a little groan.

"Gar?" He said weakly, rubbing at his aching chest.

"You better have a real good reason for practically hauling our door off its hinges!" Vic snapped.

Gar clutched blindly at the front of Vic's shirt, still panting hard.

"It's… it's Tara," she said, his voice shaking. "I just went over… to her apartment… and she's…"

"She's what?" Robin asked, getting to his feet and straightening his fedora.

Gar looked at him, still clinging to Vic's shirt.

"…She's _gone_…!"

**

* * *

**

Terra always seems to get it in the neck in my AUs… O.o

The stuff about "waking up" during the night actually has a fair amount of truth to it – it _is_ true, but I'm not sure if the number of times I put down is correct…

Anyone guessed the _Batman: TAS_ episode yet (apart from Narroch)? Clue: Harley's role in this chapter was originally Dr Leslie Tompkins'.

Sorry for major talky in this chapter…

RR xXx


	8. Hairclip

Argh, it's ages since I updated this, so… here we are.

Thankyou to: **GraysonGirl **(gee, thanks for the crit, GG! Bruce was allowed into the psychology meeting because… he is special. As for Terra and her fate – I am making no promises…); **AlsoSprachOdin **(by now a very familiar name! Thanks for your reviews on _Layer Cake_ also! And yes, I probably was missing a word in that sentence. Thanks for pointing that out. You have a very keen eye noticing the tiniest details, BTW… :D); **The Aceman **(I think I sent you a review reply, and if I didn't I meant to, to tell you that yeah, you guessed right. Heh I was wondering when someone would…); **Guardian of Azarath **(you can get the DVDs in HMV. That's where mine are from, anyway. And your theory is a good one…); **BerryDrops **(I like your pen-name. glad you're enjoying the fic!); **Quinn and His Quill **(whaddaya mean, "for once" I'm right? Rawr. Also, my suspicions have been confirmed – you're a psycho); **Stargirl7 **(heh, well, you'll just have to keep reading! Keep up the great work on _Coma_!); **Me **(Speedy is here next time. Is that soon enough for ya?); and **RoseXxxXThorn **(of course Robin's crazy – you'd have to be to wear _that_ outfit… O.o).

And now I shall plug; not because plugging ever _works_ particularly, but because I have a keyboard in front of me and I can pretty much write anything I want to:

Check out _**Teen Titans: Coma**_ by **Stargirl7**. It's really good and I'm practically her only reader/reviewer. I can't understand why… It's first on my Favourites List, if you want to find it.

And, if you're enjoying the _Batman_-esque backdrop to this fic, why not catch up with _**Layer Cake**_ by moi? It's only two pretty short chapters so far, and it's about Robin, and… stuff… VERY seeped in Batmanisms…

Wow, lookit. I invented a word.

Hairclip

"Wait, so… Start again."

Detective Dick Grayson hopped up onto the desk and sat on its surface. Over at the coffee strainer, his partner Detective Victor Stone watched him intently as he made three fresh cups of the hot caffeine-rich drink.

Detective Garfield Logan, his breathing coming easier now, looked up at Dick.

"My shift finished at 5pm," he said, his voice still quivering a little. "Tara had invited me over to her apartment, so when I was done here I headed on over there by taxi cab. But when I got there…"

"…She wasn't there," Vic finished, coming to the desk with three cups of coffee.

"How do you know she wasn't just… you know, _out_?" Robin asked.

"Well, to start with, smart guy," Gar snapped, "why would she have invited me over if she had to go out?"

"Maybe it was unplanned," Vic offered, sitting in his seat at the desk; Gar was in Robin's usual one, while Robin himself perched on the desk.

"Got a point," Robin agreed, sipping at his coffee.

"Well, I might be willing to agree with you both," Gar said softly, "if it wasn't for the fact that door was off its hinges, and her apparent was _completely ransacked_."

Robin and Vic both blinked at him several times, floored.

"You think she was burgled?"

"I think she was _kidnapped_." Gar pulled at his hair in despair. "But I… I don't know who, or why, or…"

"Did you investigate the scene?" Robin asked.

"Of course I did. I'm with CSI, aren't I? It's like some kind of animal instinct I have…"

"See anything unusual? Were there any traces of what could have done this?"

"No, and no. But…" Gar sighed. "I'm only one person, I didn't have my kit with me, and I was pretty shaken up. There must be clues there somewhere – I just didn't see them."

Robin nodded thoughtfully.

"Have you informed the CSI team? The Missing Persons Department? Lieutenant Wayne? Commissioner Gordon?"

"No to all again. I came straight up to you two."

"Alright. Then we have to do this properly," Robin said with conviction, sliding off the desk.

Vic blinked.

"Did I just hear the words "We have to do this properly" come out of your mouth?" He asked incredulously.

Robin smiled sourly.

"_Ha_, Vic." He turned to Gar. "Gar, you go straight down to either Wayne or Gordon and tell them what has happened. Vic, you should go with him."

"And what are _you_ going to do?" Vic asked. "Still taking your afternoon off?"

"Don't be stupid." Robin took one last sip of his coffee before putting it down and heading for the door. "I have my own methods."

"Wait." Vic grabbed his arm, stopping him from leaving. "I thought you just said we were going to do this properly?"

"We are."

"We are _not_. You're already charging off by yourself after giving everyone else orders."

"Vic, don't start. Not now, _please_. Time is against us, and we don't know where the girl is, or… _anything_…"

"You just _promised_ me that you were going to start following the rules a little more, and now…" Vic trailed off in exasperation as Robin pulled his arm free. "What do you think you're going to do, anyway? Kidnapping isn't even our department!"

"Trust me," Robin pleaded, making for the door. "I think I can help."

Vic opened his mouth to protest again, but Gar stood and headed him off;

"Let him go, Vic." His green eyes were pleading. "If he thinks there's something he can do, then let him go. It could mean the difference between life and death."

He reached into his coat pocket and extracted something.

"Here," he said, holding it out to Robin. "I found this on the floor just outside the front door. I think she might have been wearing it when she was taken."

Robin took it; and held it up to discover that it was a blue butterfly-shaped hairclip.

There was something violently familiar about it; and for a moment he shut his eyes to concentrate on pushing away the illusion-conjured images of _Terra_, in blue shorts, a gray crop-top, and this very hairclip…

"She was wearing it the night I first met her," Gar was saying. "She said someone gave it to her."

"Alright." Robin shook his head a little. "Alright. Thanks, Gar." He slipped it into his pocket and made for the door again. "I'll meet you back here in a little while." He turned back, looking from Vic to Gar and then back again, his gaze piercing. "And if anyone asks, I went home."

He held up the slightly-crumpled handwritten pass Dr Quinzel had given him.

Vic massaged his forehead wearily.

"Tell me why you're doing this again?" He groaned.

Robin left the office, answering only as he shut the door behind him;

"Because I know where to start…"

**TT**

For the second time that day, Robin clutched at his side as he climbed the last flight of stairs up to apartment 80.

Raven and Starfire. Raven herself has said that Tara was a friend of theirs. Maybe they could shed some light on this matter…

He knocked on the door, praying that either one – but best, _both_ – were home.

A moment or two passed; and then the door opened, and Raven was stood at the threshold, wrapped in a blue silk bathrobe, a similarly blue towel over her wet hair like a hood.

_An illusion it may be; but for petesakes…_

"Bad time?" He asked weakly.

She arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah, bad time." She folded her arms, resting her weight on one hip. "Can I help you, detective? Are you looking for Starfire? Because she's not here. She left for work ten minutes ago."

"Oh. Alright. You'll do."

Her other eyebrow joined the first.

"Will I indeed?"

"Yeah." He leaned against the doorframe. "I need to ask you about your friend Tara."

Raven blinked.

"What about her?"

"We think she's been kidnapped." He looked over his shoulder down the corridor. "If you don't mind, could we not discuss this out here?"

"O-of course."

Wide-eyed, she motioned him to come in, and then shut the door. Pulling the towel off her head, she vigorously rubbed her hair dry as she led the way towards the front room. She ran a comb through it as she sank onto the sofa; Robin perched on the same seat he had sat in earlier.

"You think she's been kidnapped?" Raven repeated finally, putting the comb aside.

Robin nodded, quickly telling her everything Gar had told Vic and Robin himself not twenty minutes before.

"You can't think of any ties she might have to… people of this nature?" He asked when he was done.

Raven shook her head.

"I can't recall; although perhaps you would be better to speak to Kory about this. She is a greater friend of Tara than I am."

Robin nodded.

"I'll catch up with her later. As for you… You're sure there's nothing? Nothing she might ever have mentioned?"

Again Raven shook her head.

"I'm sorry that I can't help you, but I don't know anything. If she ever mentioned anything like that, it was probably to Kory."

"And where is Miss Anders?"

"At work. I told you."

"At the Batcave?"

Raven nodded.

"Yes. She's performing tonight. She's off tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is no good to me." Robin stood up. "I'll have to go down there and talk to her now."

"If you wait ten minutes," Raven said, getting up from the sofa herself, "I'll come with you."

"You're not working tonight?"

"No. I only work Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays."

Robin nodded and sank back into his seat.

"And today is a Tuesday. Alright, I'll wait."

"Thankyou." She slinked out of the room, dragging her towel behind her.

He glanced around for the second time that day; he noticed that Starfire's shoes were missing from beside the couch. The book had moved from the coffee table to the arm of the couch too, and there was a single mashed cigarette butt in the ashtray, as though to make up for it.

Some ten minutes later, Raven returned, apparently ready to go; dressed in a simple, short black dress, near-opaque stockings, small shoes with a slight heel to them, and a beige, knee-length trench coat over the top of it all. She was just buckling the belt of her coat as she entered the room.

He thought, briefly, that if in the illusion world, she would seem incredibly over-dressed; but here…

No, this was normal. In fact, her clothes were even actually rather casual.

He stood and crossed to meet her, offering her a little smile.

"Nice. Shall we go?"

She nodded, allowing him to lead the way.

Going downstairs wasn't nearly as hard as going up, although Raven tottered tentatively after him in her shoes; when they reached the bottom and got outside, Raven waved them down a cab and they sat side by side on the backseat in near-silence, both with their hands clasped in their laps. The silence wasn't exactly uncomfortable – just there simply because they a.) didn't want to discuss what had possibly happened to Tara in front of the smoking, overweight Italian-American cab driver; and b.) didn't really know each other very well at all. Robin liked her, but he didn't really have anything to say to her.

Pulling up outside the Batcave – glittering in the dark – Robin helped Raven out of the cab, handing across two dollar bills to the driver.

"Generous tip," Raven acknowledged as the cab drove off. "Your friend gave me quite a big tip last night, too. Do all you detectives have that much money to burn?"

"No. But I'm a cop. We look out for the little people."

Raven rolled her eyes.

"So I'm a "little person", am I?" She muttered. "How very charming…"

He glanced at her, amused.

"You have quite a lot to say for a dame."

The look she shot him this time was quite a bit more poisonous.

"And why _shouldn't_ I?" With a toss of her short silky hair, she stalked off ahead towards the club, her heels clicking in a staccato rhythm.

Pulling his tie straight, and for some reason rather annoyed with himself for saying that, he went after her. He caught her up at the inner foyer, where she was standing at the reception desk, scouting for the Maitre D.

"Hey." He put his hand on her shoulder as he reached her. "I'm sorry I said that, okay?"

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"What is it with you men?" She asked him, her eyes locking with his. "You're such chauvinists. We're just as strong as you."

"I know. I know you are. I said I was sorry."

And maybe it had been an illusion; but it had taught him a few things. That, yes, females were as strong – perhaps even _stronger_ than males. And maybe Raven wasn't talking about physical strength here; but in the illusional world, perhaps the two _strongest_ members of his team had been the _girls_.

"Well…" She looked away again. "Alright. I'll accept your apology. There are not many men who would have apologized at all."

"No." He found himself readily agreeing with her. "You're right about that too."

She smiled a little, glancing back at him.

"You know," she said, her voice a little smug, "I think I like you, detective."

He shot her a grin in reply; which was soon wiped off his face when the Maitre D bustled over and Raven requested a table for two near the stage.

"Hey, hey, what's this?" He hissed at her. "I'm not here to make merry with you, doll. I'm here to talk to Kory Anders."

"You'll see." She tugged at the sleeve of his trench coat to make him follow. "And _don't_ call me 'doll'."

He followed her to the small table, at which Raven pointed up to the stage.

Starfire was up there, strutting her stuff in a floor-length violet satin gown. She hadn't seen either of them, so wrapped up was she in her act; similarly, the rest of the audience were pretty wrapped up in _her_.

"Here's the deal," Raven said coolly, beginning to unbutton her trench coat. "You want to talk to her, but she's singing at the moment. She probably won't be done for at least another half an hour, so you'll just have to _wait_ until she's done, okay?" She sat down and rested her chin in one hand, looking at him with one eyebrow arched amusedly. "Now sit yourself down… _doll_."

He eyed her warily for a moment or two; then shrugged off his coat, removed his fedora, and plonked himself down next to her. The Maitre D took their drinks – a Long Island Iced Tea and a Billy D on ice – and whisked off.

"What _are_ you?" Robin asked her grouchily. "The devil's daughter?"

"That's me." Her eyes danced with laughter she did not outwardly express. "Born to destroy the world."

He blinked at her; feeling an icy stone suddenly descend down his throat and into the pit of his stomach.

"Why… did you say that?" He asked her, his voice hushed.

She shrugged.

"Seemed to me like that was what you wanted to hear, detective." She frowned. "You know, I don't know your name."

"Oh. Yeah." He nodded; it hadn't really occurred to him until now. "Didn't Starfire tell you?"

Raven shook her head, another smirk playing across her lips.

"No, she didn't. And for the record, _her_ name… isn't _Starfire_."

"Oh." He exhaled deeply with an embarrassed little laugh. "Y-yeah. Kory. Yes, I knew that…"

She raised her eyebrow again; just as a uniformed young man – with long black hair and dark eyes – came over with their drinks.

"Hey, Raven," he acknowledged.

Raven waved her fingers at him, her expression rather deadpan.

"Hi, Garth."

He gave her a little nod and disappeared off between the surrounding tables.

"Friend of yours?" Robin asked flatly, watching the boy leave.

"Colleague. He works behind the bar. Does most of the drinks, you know; so we call him "Aqualad"."

Robin fought to ignore that horrible icy feeling dominating his insides.

_It was an illusion. All an illusion, because you can't be satisfied with what you have, boy._

He lit himself up a cigarette and offered her one; and leaned back and sipped his malt as he looked around and drank in the rich, textured atmosphere.

"Isn't this place great?" He said to her after a while; sounding as though he was maybe trying convince himself of this conviction.

Raven nodded thoughtfully, watching the smoke curl from her cigarette.

"It's pretty good if you're a guest, like this," she replied. "When you're selling cigarettes from a tray all night, suddenly it isn't so pretty. But you know what…?" She flicked some ash into the ashtray in the middle of the small table. "There's something strange about this club too. Something I can't… quite place…"

"Like what?" He asked, watching her sip at her liquor-tinted iced tea.

"The atmosphere…" She waved her hand vaguely. "It's almost too… precise. I can't explain it. Sometimes I just… question its authenticity. It feels like people are putting on an act, you know? And this isn't Los Angeles. That kind of fakeness isn't normal here."

"No, I…" Robin looked around himself, his gaze intent. "I guess I kind of see what you mean, Raven…"

They turned their collective attention to Starfire then; watching her tear her way through her act with an electrifying intensity. She was a born performer, and had the audience in the palm of her hand, just as she had done the previous night. She still appeared to not have noticed them, for when she finally wrapped up her set, she did not even look their direction, instead making her way offstage and through a blue velvet curtain.

"Come on." Raven stood, picking up her coat.

Robin followed suit, putting his fedora back on and slinging his trench on over his shoulders like a cape. He followed her towards the backstage entrance, where she led the way through the curtain. She was a little way ahead of him; and she let out a little gasp of surprise when a big guy in a rumpled suit – a bouncer of sorts, apparently – grabbed her wrist from the shadows, stopping her from going any further down the narrow corridor towards Starfire's dressing room.

"Come on, dollface," he said gruffly, "you know you ain't authorized to be down here."

"I'm her room-mate!" Raven protested, flailing in his grip.

"Uh-huh. And I'm Harry S. Truman. Let's move it along, sweetcakes."

"She's with me," Robin said calmly, catching them up with ease.

The bouncer looked at him.

"And who the hell are _you_?" He demanded. "Dick Tracy?"

Robin smiled, flipping out his wallet to show his badge.

"_So_ close," he admitted with a grin. "I _am_ a detective, and my name _is_ Dick. But I'm Detective Dick Grayson of the GCPD, and I'm here on police business." He nodded at Raven. "She's with me, and we're here to talk to Miss Kory Anders."

"You got a warrant for that?"

Robin's eyes narrowed.

"I don't _need_ a warrant to ask a few questions."

The bouncer looked him up and down a few more times, apparently not entirely liking what he saw. He gazed hard at the GCPD crest and license in his wallet, as though trying to read if it was a fake. Finally, finding no ammunition, he let go of Raven's wrist and motioned them past.

"Dick Grayson, huh?" Raven noted as she knocked on Starfire's dressing room door. "Catchy. It's very 'now'."

"Thankyou." He slipped his wallet back into his breast pocket as they waited for a reply. "Although why do I sense you're being sarcastic?"

She shot him a little smirk.

"I have that effect on people, copper."

The door opened and Starfire peeked out.

"Marv?"

"Sorry, Miss Anders." Robin couldn't help grinning at her. "Hope you're not too disappointed."

"Oh!" She opened the door wide, beaming at him; she was still in her purple gown, but was barefoot. "Detective Grayson! And Raven too! Oh, this is most joyous! What is the occasion?"

"The _occasion_ is anything but joyous, Kory," Raven said flatly, pushing her friend back into the dressing room.

Starfire seemed shocked.

"Wh…? Raven, please… what is wrong?"

Robin followed them in, pulling the door closed behind him.

The dressing room was small and cramped, but comfortable in a strange way. There was a soft chair, a small couch, and a mirror with lights around it, in which to apply make-up. A lamp lit the whole room with a warm glow, which was just as well, since there was only tiny window, with shuttered blinds pulled across it. The detective got the impression that Starfire shared this room with other cabaret acts and singers, for it was fairly untidy, and the pictures stuck up around the walls betrayed many different tastes. Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire hot-stepped alongside a glossy picture of two beautiful black African women, with beads and glowing mocha skin and soft black hair shaved close to their heads; Marilyn Monroe preened prettily next to Charlie Chaplin; a bright poster for the Wizard of Oz looked out of place beside a black and white still of Laurel and Hardy.

Starfire sat in the dressing table chair, casting her worried glance between Robin and Raven; the former was still standing, whereas the latter had taken a seat on the small couch opposite her friend.

"I'll be frank with you, Miss Anders," Robin said after a long, uncomfortable pause. "While I promised to come and see you, that is not the reason I am here."

Starfire turned her concerned green eyes on him.

"I had conjectured as much, detective. Please, what is the trouble? You both seem so… worried."

Robin folded his arms, still with his coat over him like a cape; so that his arms did not manipulate the sleeves.

"I need you to tell me about Tara Markov," he said firmly. "We have reason to believe she has been kidnapped, and we need any information you can give us."

Starfire gave a horrified little gasp, one hand going to her mouth.

"Kidnapped? But who…? Why would anyone…?"

Robin smiled grimly.

"That's what I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_. Here's the situation; Detective Garfield Logan of the GCPD today went to Tara's apartment after being invited there by her. On arriving, he found the place ransacked and Tara herself missing." At this point, Robin reached down into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out the butterfly hairclip, holding it up. "He found this at the door of the apartment, and believes she was wearing it when she was taken."

Starfire blinked several times at the clip, and then reached for it; Robin handed it to her and watched her turn it over in her slender fingers.

"It's familiar to you?"

"Yes." Starfire's voice quivered slightly. "I-I… gave this to Tara."

"Can you tell me anything else about it?"

"No. It is just a hairclip, detective." She looked up at him. "She wore it often, but there is no other history to it."

"Alright," he sighed; he had been hoping that it had some kind of significance. "It doesn't matter."

"I've seen her wearing it," Raven agreed from the couch. "In fact, she almost always wears it."

"Hm." Robin nodded. "Miss Anders, has Tara… ever _mentioned_ anything to you? Anything about anyone she might know involved in some kind of crime? Drugs, prostitution, anything at all?"

To his disappointment, Starfire, like Raven, also shook her head.

"I am sorry, Detective Grayson. Tara never spoke much of her personal life at all."

"Are you _sure_?" Robin pressed, his voice near-pleading. "You can remember _nothing_?"

Wide-eyed, Starfire again declined her head.

"I am truly sorry."

"Oh…" He waved his hand at her, frustrated. "It's not your fault." He reached for the door handle. "I'm sorry for rushing out like this, but I have to get back to the precinct."

He looked at Raven.

"Are you staying here, or are you going home again?"

"I'm going to stay," Raven replied. "Kory has another set at 9pm, and then we're going to go home together."

Robin nodded.

"Alright. Thankyou both for your time."

"Detective!"

Starfire's voice stopped him from completely leaving, and he turned back to her.

"Yeah?"

She held out the hairclip.

"I know I said it was of no significance, but surely… you wish to take this with you?"

"Oh, yeah…" He held out his hand, and Starfire placed the blue clip into it. Her fingers lingered on his palm for longer than they needed to.

He barely noticed, however; since she chose that moment to plant a small kiss on his cheek.

"Please, you will be careful in pursuing this kidnapper…?" She whispered.

He nodded, unable to find his voice; and quickly left after shooting her a quick, lopsided grin, before his face went completely crimson.

Outside, in the cool, dark corridor, he allowed himself a further, broader smile despite the seriousness of his endeavor; and, on feeling the heat in his cheeks finally die away, started down the corridor, his coat flowing behind him still in its cape-like tendency, and with a certain boldness to his step.

As he slipped the clip back into his pocket, he noticed that she had also placed something else into his hand – a small blue card with _The Batcave Bar and Dining Club, est. 1939_ printed on it in silver, along with contact details. She'd written "Starfire" across the top, as though…

…to remind him…

The bouncer shot him a reproachful glance as he passed him; and raised his thick eyebrows on noticing that Raven was not with him this time, but said nothing.

On making his way back through the Batcave club – to the sound of a swinging jazz band up on stage – he noticed several other "gentlemen", as they had today, look deliberately away from him, or lean in and whisper to one another. The silver flash of his badge was enough to do that to them. And despite the fact they were mostly likely tied up in drugs and theft and murder and fraud and God only knew what else…

He smiled.

And it made him happy to be who he was.

Such was his moment of high self-esteem, he decided to walk home; to savor the feeling, and to get a better look at his city. There was nothing truly glittering about Gotham City – it was hardly Tinseltown, or even _Metropolis_, but… There was something about it. Something that was dark, but comforting. Something familiar, something proverbial, something…

…_noir_.

He got himself out a cigarette. Maybe he was smoking too many of them, but he suddenly seemed a lot more comfortable doing so. It didn't feel so alien to him anymore. He tilted his fedora down a little, and walked with his hands in his pockets, his cigarette in his mouth, and still with his coat only over his shoulders.

He found himself at Crime Alley; the area, now notorious for being the execution spot of Brother Blood, was still taped off, and there was a beat car parked nearby. No officers around, but there was a donut shop across the street. He would hazard a guess that they hadn't gone far, then…

He passed it, intending to cut down the narrow lane running parallel to it. The GCPC precinct was only a few blocks from here. He stepped into the encompassing dark of the alley, his cigarette casting on orange glow on his face, and began to walk…

"Smoking again, Robin?" There was the distinctive voice again, accompanied by the resounding _tap_ of someone stepping out into the lane behind him. "You know it's not good for your health."

Robin froze; his cigarette fell from his mouth, smoke billowing as it hit the alley floor.

Quinzel had explained everything else; but not _this_. She could _never_ have explained _this_…

"What do you want?" Robin asked in a low voice, not turning to the masked man.

Slade laughed.

"Oh, now, Robin. You know there will never be any escape from _me_…"

Robin whirled on him furiously.

"You aren't _real_!" He yelled. "Don't you _understand_ that?!"

"How can you be so sure?"

"I spoke… I saw Dr Quinzel, okay?" Robin seethed. "She's the GCPD psychologist, and she… she explained all this stuff to me. I am _not crazy_, and the Titans, and all the monsters and superpowers, and you… _none_ of it is real!"

Slade laughed coldly.

"Well, it takes a fool to know another, Robin."

Robin's fists clenched white.

And then he laughed.

"Ah… yes," he panted, catching his breath. "I understand now. Yeah."

"You understand _what_?"

"Well, Quinzel said… that the reason I created all that stuff in my head… was because I wasn't satisfied with what I had. And… well, it makes sense now, that you…"

Robin trailed off, putting his head in his hands for a moment or two; and then he raised it, and he was even _smiling_ a little.

"…You _aren't_ real," he whispered. "You're just another figment, and you… you _represent_ everything that I hate, and everything that _makes_ me unsatisfied, and I…"

Struck with a sudden defiant boldness, Robin stalked over to him, his trench shrouding him and giving him a strange sense of confidence.

"I just want you to know," he hissed, "that I _am_ happy with my life, and that I _have_ everything I want, and that… well, that you can just clear off, pal, because if my insecurities aren't real, then neither are _you_!"

Robin turned on his heel and started to make off down the alleyway, secretly pleased with himself for laying down the law to this stalker of his—

With another icy little laugh, Slade grasped his shoulder, violently halting his March of Triumph.

"Theoretically, that _is_ an excellent hypothesis you have there, _detective_," he murmured. "There's just one problem with it…"

As Robin furiously turned to him a second time, Slade punched him full-on across the face. Staggering, Robin lost his balance and collapsed, losing his trench as he hit the damp ground of the dark lane.

"…_It's not going to make me go away_," Slade finished in a low, venomous hiss.

Robin sat up, completely shocked by the blow; and by the fact that this… this… _madman_… would _dare_ to hit a GCPD detective across the face…

The unpleasant salt-tinged taste of blood flooded his mouth, and he spat it out onto the concrete. And then, with a real twisted expression of pure _loathing_ on his face, he looked up at his assaulter.

"_Who do you think you are?_" He whispered; part incredulous, part murderous.

Slade reached down and grasped the boy by the front of his jacket; tugging tightly on his collar and distinctive crimson tie.

And what he spoke was the truth;

"…Your worst nightmare."

* * *

Okay, before _anyone_ gets _any_ ideas (and maybe breaking a few hearts here)… The above is not intended to have slashy undertones. NONE WHATSOEVER. 

So if you're thinking that Slade…

_-Smack on the wrist-_

Go back to _Small Print_. I mean, let's consider; and anyone who read _Wertham's Law_ (or, in Narroch's case, co-_wrote_ _Wertham's Law_…) can back me up here. This fic is set in 1948 – in reality, only six years on (in 1954), Dr Fredric Wertham was launching his _Seduction of the Innocent_ tirade against Batman and Robin, accusing them of having a homoerotic relationship, among other things…

So no. Just _no_.

If you want to find out what _did_ happen… come back next chapter!

Next up: Speedy!

RR xXx


	9. Needle

Wa ha ha. Amusing thing, and I think that a few of you have probably stumbled across it already: _NOIR_ GOT FLAMED.

Yup, a real flame from a real flamer. :D This amuses me highly mostly because I've stumbled across this particular flamer a few times. I've never been flamed before, but this geezer is fairly throwing themselves about, so I knew who s/he was before I got the flame from them. **Flamers-rock-and-you-know-it** is their name; copying the infamous **Flame Rising** is their game. I really wish Flame Rising would do something to cull all these knock-offs of him, actually. I've kicked around his profile once or twice and he seems as unimpressed with them as everyone else is. It's kind of weird – nobody seems to mind the original Flame Rising as much as they mind the newer ones that are copying him… O.o Gee, even flaming has turned into a franchise – they'll be selling shirts next…

Anyway, what made me laugh most about the lovely "review" Flamers-rock-and-you-know-it left me was that it; a.) Was the exact same word-for-word flame that s/he gives everyone else (complete with the same typo…); and b.) S/he flamed everyone else on the first page of the _Teen Titans_ section that day. _Every single other person_.

It's nice that s/he doesn't discriminate, isn't it:)

Although I think they've missed the point. I don't agree with flaming, and was about to wage war on Trolly Polly before s/he mysteriously vanished, but I think Flame Rising and the other first flamers started up because there _is_ some garbage on the site. I don't think flaming is the right way of _dealing_ with it, since abusive insults don't _help_ people who can't write very well to get better, but… I think the majority of the stories that _originally_ got flamed were scorched because they weren't very good.

If you've been flamed recently, however, I wouldn't be too concerned. Everyone is jumping on the bandwagon now. I'm always finding new ones, and they're like the generation of wannabe celebrities; they flame everyone to get attention and a reputation.

Hn. Guess it worked forFlamers-rock-and-you-know-it. I'm making a spectacle of them right here.

…OMG, you wouldn't believe how much I smiled when I got that flame. It made my day.

Thankyous… are down the bottom.

Needle

It's a siren that awakes me.

A siren; distant, wailing its plight perhaps up to five blocks away.

My cheek is numb; icy cold. I lift my head a little, and understand the reason for it – it has been resting on the concrete.

I shiver with the cold –I'm absolutely, _indescribably_ freezing.

And I ache. Oh, _how_ my body aches…

I feel the agony scream in me as I shift a little; I groan, and even _that_ hurts.

Taking a deep heaving breath, I prop myself on my elbows, gritting my teeth against the strain and soreness of it. Panting, sitting up, I shiver uncontrollably; looking around wearily.

Still down that accursed back-alley. That wacko Slade is nowhere to be found…

I can remember, in vague, painful flashes, what happened.

And what happened is simple, really.

Slade _beat the hell_ out of me; until I passed out, apparently. And then just left me there – unconscious down some filthy rat-infested back lane, in the biting night November wind that could easily give me pneumonia, or worse.

Great. And don't _I_ sound pathetic…

I cough a little, the action making my body ache all over again; and hope it isn't the start of something serious.

That would be the _last_ freakin' thing I need…

This is crazy; I've heard of police brutality, but honestly… _This_ is screwed around and _then_ some…

This Slade guy is a professional, clearly; I'm bruised and battered in places I didn't even know I _had_, but nothing is broken - a clumsier assaulter would most certainly have broken something by hitting too heavy. No, I know my crooks – I know how they behave. And being violently assaulted, like I've just been, is usually a warning. Gangs and guys like that, they do this kind of thing. They don't want to kill you, see; they just want you to know you're in deep trouble with them. So the guy who does the deed won't break any bones – that's _punishment_, not a warning. It's some kind of unwritten underworld rule…

But I don't understand _Slade's_ motives.

All that I know now is that the man is _real_. I most certainly believe that now. Hell, I _felt_ him; felt his fists and his boots, over and over…

What the hell other choice do I have?

Yes, Slade is real.

And where the _hell_ does that leave _me_?

Because Slade – there's no denying it – has walked straight out of my illusion. His clothes, his voice, his words, his fighting skill.

And I… I'm not this "Boy Wonder". I don't have the knowledge of all those fantastical martial arts soaring through my mind and down through my body, making it move and twist and flip; I don't have the weapons or the gadgets; I have nothing at all. More often than not, I don't carry my licensed gun, and tonight is no exception. It's still in its holster, hanging over the hook in the office. Vic's always going on about it to me, but I don't listen to him.

I _tried_ to fight him; and I got in a hit or two, but ultimately, I guess I didn't have a chance.

So Slade beat me to a pulp and walked nonchalantly away.

I find my fedora close by and put it back onto my pounding head. I can taste blood in my mouth, and I think it's on my face too. I find my trench and reach for it, barely grasping it and dragging it towards me. It's damp and dirty, but I pull it around my shoulders, glad of the little extra warmth it gives me.

Getting up is murder. I clutch at the wall of the alley and use it to haul myself up, but my legs are shaking and my body doesn't want to follow orders. I pause, groaning under my breath; trying to summon the strength to get out of the alley and out onto the street.

I push away from the wall, take a step, and stumble; I groan again in frustration, half collapsed onto my knees. I can't do this – I'm too weak and hurt, the adrenaline from the fight has long since left me, and the fact that I was lying unconscious in the street for God knows how long has seriously taken its toll on me. The shivers are literally racking my body, and I simply can't stand up.

I barely feel myself hit the ground this time. The iciness of the pavement doesn't feel so cold against my cheek now.

Maybe… yeah, maybe I should just lie here for a while…

—

I must have passed out again, although I'm not sure for how long; but the next thing I feel is something lifting me, supporting my back.

A hand on my face – and it suddenly feels scorching, against my cold skin.

I hear a voice; a voice I recognize. Talking to someone. Not me.

"…Great work there, kid. He's so cold. I don't know what happened to him, or how long he's been out here…"

I manage to open my eyes. The first thing I see is this little dark-haired kid blinking at me; a boy, maybe seven or eight. Don't recognize him…

The kid looks up at whoever is hoisting me up.

"Hey, Mister Detective, he's wakin' up…"

"Oh?" The guy holding me leans over; and through vision that's a little blurred, I recognize the red hair under the black fedora. "Dick, you okay?"

"Roy…?" I can barely speak.

Detective Roy Harper nods grimly.

"You're a lucky one, Grayson. If it wasn't for the kid here… Say, what's your name?"

The kid straightens himself up.

"Tim," he says, saluting Roy. "Tim Drake."

Roy nods.

"Well, you're a hero, Tim." He forces me to sit up. "Tim found you, Dick, down this alley. He thought you'd been shot, so he came running to find a police officer. I was just coming back from the store when he ran right into me."

"Right," I manage to say. I nod at this Tim kid. "Thanks…"

He blinks at me some more.

"You gonna be alright, mister?"

I nod my head, even though it hurts to do so; and feel Roy slinging my arm over his shoulders so that he can help me up.

"Can you walk?" He asks me.

"I… I can try…"

"Alright."

With a combined effort on both our parts, he gets me to my feet. It's a hell of a job to keep me there, though, so even Tim pitches in, desperate to help out, by the looks of it. Panting a little, and heaving on my dead weight, Roy nods ahead.

"C'mon, precinct's only a few blocks away." He nods at Tim. "C'mon, kid. You too. Can't leave you down here…"

"Yes, sir!" Bright-eyed for some _insane_ reason, he scoots after us.

Yeah, this must all be some big adventure to him…Well, I'm glad _someone's_ having fun. Although I suppose I should be more grateful – left until morning, and who knows what could have happened to me down there…?

The GCPD precinct building may be only a few blocks away.

But right now, that seems like painful, endless _miles_.

**TT**

"So, is it like… real fun, busting crooks an' stuff?" Tim asked earnestly, leaning towards Robin as the battered detective eyed him warily.

"It has its ups and downs," Robin replied truthfully, massaging his forehead. "_This_, as you can see, is one of the downs."

He was referring, of course, to his current state; he was curled up in one of the chairs at Roy Harper's desk, a rug wrapped tightly around him and with several bandages here and there to stem bleeding or reduce swelling. It hurt a little to talk, since his lip was split, and ached now with every word.

But he felt much warmer; and while the pain was as strong as ever, now, inside a safe, warm building, it didn't bother himself nearly as much. Roy had taken his coat and hat to replace them with the blanket, and now Robin's collar was unbuttoned, his scarlet tie loose at his neck.

The kid, Tim Drake, was sitting across the desk from him, in the other chair; his feet dangling quite a way up from the floor.

"Yeah," he agreed in awe, sitting back again. "Guess whoever did that to you got you real good."

"You could say that…"

The sight of Robin's bruised and beaten form did not seem to deter the kid from expressing open admiration towards him, however.

"I wanna be like you," he said excitedly. "I wanna… wanna be a _cop_."

Robin gave a little groan.

"I wouldn't recommend it…"

"It'd be great," Tim gabbled in continuation, not hearing his bitter little comment. "I wanna stop criminals too, like you. I wanna be a _hero_."

Robin actually found the energy and stamina to smile at him, in reference to last thing he had said.

"Yeah… me too, Tim."

"You think I could, maybe, one day, sir?"

"Maybe, if you do your training and get through the academy."

"Gee, is it hard?"

"Depends." Robin fidgeted with one of his bandages. "Depends on what kind of person you are."

Tim looked blankly at him, and Robin sighed.

"Well, if you're a weak-willed person," he explained tiredly, "you obviously won't make it through. You have to be strong, and determined, and…"

He trailed off, despite the fact that Tim was nodding enthusiastically.

"Did _you_ find it hard?"

"It was… uh, well… some parts were harder than others. I…" Robin rubbed at his forehead again, harder this time. "I don't really… _remember_…"

"I'll get through." The little kid clenched his fists on the desk's surface. "I'll be fine. I'll get through. Top of the class."

Robin smiled faintly at him.

"Maybe, kid."

"And I'll be a detective and have a cool nickname, like you."

Robin blinked at him.

"What do you mean?"

Tim straightened himself up importantly.

"I heard the other detective, the one who just went out of the room… He called you 'Robin'."

"I… can't say I noticed," Robin replied truthfully.

"Well, I wanna be like that too."

"You want to be 'Robin'?"

"I can't." The kid looked at him. "_You're_ Robin."

"Well, I won't be here forever, kid. Maybe you'll, uh… _succeed_ me, or something…"

"Well, gee, thankyou, sir…"

Robin waved it casually aside.

"Here." He unpinned his glinting GCPD crest and slid it across the table. "Take it."

The kid stared at it, longing in his wide eyes. He looked up at Robin, and then back at the crest, and then back and forth a few times more; before finally saying, in a pained voice;

"I can't. It's yours. You need it."

Robin shrugged nonchalantly.

"I'll get another one. In fact, I think I _have_ another one somewhere…"

"Really?" Tim reached for it, grasping it with two small shaking hands. "I can… _really_ have this?"

Robin nodded.

"Sure. You can practice wearing it for when you become a real cop."

Tim grinned, clutching his gift tightly.

"Thankyou so much."

The door swung open before Robin could reply; Roy leaned in, his gaze on Tim.

"Hey, kid, c'mon, I got you a cab to take you home. You should get to bed or something…"

As Tim got up, Roy's gaze turned to Robin.

"Hey, Dick, go into that drawer for me, would you?" He asked, pointing at the desk drawer. "There should be a few dollar bills in there."

Robin did as he asked, rummaging through the drawer. After a few moments' clattering around, he saw the telltale glint of green and tugged out the five or six dollar bills paperclipped together.

And as he did so, there was a subtle metallic scraping; looking down, he saw that he had loosened up… a spoon? No, there were a few…

Why did Roy Harper have _spoons_ in his desk drawer?

Robin shut the drawer again and rolled up the bills, sending them in Roy's direction with an arching long shot. The red-headed detective caught them and took Tim by the shoulder.

"Thanks. See you in a second."

"Thankyou!" Tim called as Roy led him out the door.

Robin waved at him as best as he was able to as the office door swung shut behind the two departing figures.

The moment they were gone, unable to help himself, Robin pulled the drawer open again and reached for the spoons; taking them out and turning them over in his fingers. They were clean – polished, even. He could see his distorted reflection in them.

Unless… But no, Roy would never… Because _that_ would be—

The door opened again, and Robin shoved the spoons back into the drawer, nudging it shut again.

Detective Roy Harper sashayed back into the office; he had long since ditched his coat, to show his tieless shirt and red braces, but slipped off his hat now and threw it, with the prowess of an archer, to glide onto the desk, where it landed perfectly between a stack of papers and an empty coffee cup.

"Coffee?" He asked, kicking the door shut with a little tap of his heel.

"Please."

Roy retrieved the coffee strainer itself and brought it to the desk, beginning to set it up.

"_So_. Situation," he said, not looking up from the coffee maker, "is that it's two in the morning, most _sane_ GCPD personnel have gone home, _including_ your partner, I might add… But _I'm_ here with _you_, after just dragging you half-unconscious out of some adjacent backstreet to Crime Alley."

He looked up finally, one eyebrow arched.

"…Frankly, pal, I can't _wait_ to hear this one."

"I'll explain in a minute. First…" Robin gave a sharp little nod in the direction of the office door. "…That kid. I've heard the name before."

"Drake? I should say so. _Jack_ Drake."

"Yes, we have a file on him. Knew I'd heard it."

"He's been up in our department a few times now", Roy mused. "Mixed up in allsorts. Not a primary threat himself, as such – he's more of a lackey for smuggling rings, you know? When they need shifting laborers. That kid, Tim, is his son."

"Wait, wait… You just sent Tim home to him, right?"

"Yeah."

"That means you know where he lives."

"Sure. His address is on file."

"Then _why_ don't you go round and arrest him?"

"Did that already; and not only me. But he's on bail at the moment, and he hasn't done anything for at least a month now, so… what can you do?"

Robin sighed heavily; tugged a little more tightly at his rug.

"Don't you just hate the way we're all tied up by rules and regulations?" He asked in a low, bitter tone. "It makes it so much harder to make sure justice is served."

"You said it. Here." Roy slid across a cup of black coffee. "Drink this. You'll feel better."

"Thanks." Robin watched as Roy made himself a cup and sat opposite him.

"So, is bruising the new vogue for the winter of 1948 or what?" The red head asked after a brief bout of silence. "'Cause if it is, you'd think they'd get themselves a better-looking model."

"_Ha_," Robin snapped. "I got beaten to a pulp, Roy. You're a detective. You should have been able to work that out."

Roy rolled his eyes.

"Spin me another, Dick; of _course_ I know that's what happened to you. Finding you face-down, dead to the world and half-frozen in an alley is enough to tell me you weren't just having a little lie-down."

"Good, because frankly, I don't really want to go into the details of exactly how I ended up looking like this."

"Fair enough." Roy sipped at his coffee. "I met Vic just as he was leaving. This was at eleven o' clock. He said he'd waited and waited with Gar Logan but you didn't come back, and he was going home to get some sleep in."

Robin socked his fist into his palm irritably.

"How can he even be _thinking_ about sleep when that poor girl—"

"Hey, well, you missed the briefing," Roy cut in coolly. "After Gar and Vic told Wayne what had happened, the CSI team was dispatched to the scene, while Commissioner Gordon and Wayne called everybody else to the auditorium to explain the situation. Gordon mentioned the departments that would be involved in the case, and, as I'm sure you can guess, _Criminal Intelligence _wasn't, for the moment, one of them. So Vic waited for you, but when you didn't come back, he went home. Even heroes like us need to rest, Dick. Part of being human, you know?"

Robin gave a frustrated little groan.

"I _know_, but—"

"And that still doesn't explain where _you_ were, or how you ended up out for the count on the street."

"I was questioning some of Tara's friends."

Roy looked confused.

"But surely that's not your—"

"I know them personally," Robin interrupted icily. "It might not be my department's job, but if anyone was going to get answers out of them, it was me."

"Anything?"

"No." Robin sighed. "Neither of them knew anything, or knew _of_ anything, or…"

"So, so far… there's nothing to go on?"

"Nope. But I have…" Robin went into his pocket, searching for the clip.

His fingers met nothing.

"What's wrong?" Roy asked as Robin started frantically going through his pockets.

"A clip… I had a hairclip… it was Tara's…!" He looked up, distracted. "It's gone!"

"Maybe you dropped it?"

"No, no… I still _had_ it when—"

He cut himself off with an angry sigh, gripping at his hair.

"_Oh god, that thieving… what the __**hell**__ does he want with…?_"

"Come again?" Roy inquired, lighting himself up a cigarette.

"I think… I think Slade took it…"

"Slade?" Roy blinked a few times. "Who is Slade?"

"The guy that… did _this_…"

"Wait, wait, wait… You _knew_ him?"

"Yes. No. I mean… _agh_…" Robin put his head in his hands. "I don't know _what_ I mean, Roy…"

"Well, you know his name, so…"

"It's… it's just…" Robin looked up at the other detective through splayed fingers. "Oh god, Roy, I just can't explain it. I know him, but I don't really, and now there's been this kidnapping, and the other crimes – the explosion, the Brother Blood killing. I just don't even know what I'm supposed to be _doing_ anymore."

He picked up his coffee and attempted to take a sip; but his aching hand was shaking more than he had thought, and he promptly spilt it onto the desk.

"Oh, I'm sorry…!" Robin started to pat at it with his rug, annoyed with himself.

"Just leave it," Roy reasoned, catching his wrist and making him stop. "Look, I think you need to rest. Want me to call you a cab?"

"Wh…? No, that's okay." Robin got up from his seat; he staggered against the desk a little, and used it to steady himself. "You're right, though."

He pointed across the office to the padded window ledge – Roy's office had one of the biggest windows in the building, and he had converted it into a sort of seat type thing once, when no-one was looking.

"I'll… I'll just lie down over here…"

Roy smiled, giving a little shake of his head.

"Okay, you do that. My shift doesn't finish until 6am anyway, so I'll be right here. I'll wake you up when I'm leaving, okay, so you can go home and freshen up."

"Alright, thanks…"

Robin lay down on the window ledge and curled up under the blanket – it wasn't the softest "bed" he had ever slept on, but he was so tired and bruised right now, it certainly felt like the _best_…

**TT**

He didn't, however, stay asleep for very long.

He awoke not even an hour later, to a darkness permeated only by a dim lamplight coming from the desk. The curtains did not allow in even a single crack of light; but most strange, and it was what woke Robin up almost to full awareness, was the faint, strange, slightly sweet smell that was spreading throughout the room. It was barely there – but in the dark and the silence, noticeable.

That, and some kind of… _burning_ smell.

Robin sat up, rubbing at his aching eyes to clear up his vision, and giving his head a little shake for good measure. Once he was satisfied, he looked across the room at the desk.

At once he saw Roy, cast almost in silhouette by the light of the lamp, and… something else. A torch? A candle? He was leaning over something, working painstakingly and carefully.

Maybe writing up a report – he had something long and thin in his hand, so probably a pen.

But that didn't explain the strange scent.

Robin got up, shucking his blanket as he made his way over to the desk. Roy didn't seem to notice, for he didn't look up, so enthralled was he by his work.

Coming to a stop beside the desk, Robin first noticed the flame.

And then the spoons.

And then the little paper package of white powder.

And then the needle in Roy's hand.

"_Jesus_…" he whispered.

Roy jumped; whipping around in his seat to stare in horror up at his friend.

"Wait, wait…!" Roy abruptly stood up. "Look, I'm in the Narcotics Department! I'm just testing… this is standard procedure…"

"Oh, god, Roy… don't _lie_ to me," Robin groaned. He nodded at the other detective's left forearm, which the sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to reveal.

In the candlelight, the bruised track marks were lewd and stark.

Roy sat down again slowly, his gaze fixated on the desk.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Robin whispered.

"Oh, yeah, how do you tell someone about _this_? Just drop it casually into the conversation?" Roy snapped, not looking at him. "Look, don't lecture me, Dick. I _know_ it's wrong. But god, I can't _help_ it. I really can't."

He looked up at the dark-haired detective again.

"Trust me, if I could stop, I would, but… I can't. I _need_ it, Dick. My body's been _screaming_ for this hit all day. I can't explain how it feels, but…" He reached for the needle again with shaking fingers. "…_I need it_."

"So the spoons… in your desk…"

With a heartbroken sigh, Robin sank into the opposite seat at the desk, placing his face in his hands.

"_I can't believe you, Roy_…" He couldn't understand why, but it suddenly felt as though Roy had lied to him, or betrayed him, even though – when he thought about it – Roy had never actually said that he _didn't_ do drugs.

It was just something he had omitted from Robin's knowledge of him.

"Who else knows?" He asked softly.

"No-one." Roy gazed pleadingly at him. "Please don't tell anyone. I'm so ashamed of it…"

"Then _stop_!" Robin snapped; this was _just_ what he didn't need, on _top_ of everything else…

"I can't," Roy said again; he held up the needle, looking at it fondly. "It feels so good. Makes all your troubles melt away, like they were never there."

He picked up one of his spoons.

"Roy, please don't."

Roy looked up again, his eyes haunted.

"I have to. I'll go crazy if I don't. If you don't want to see it, then you—"

"What is it?"

"Heroin."

Robin gave another little groan as Roy started to strategically put some of the powder onto the spoon.

"How did this happen to you?"

"Just… experimenting. And then, _bam_! You're hooked. But… it feels good, Dick. It really does. It's _amazing_."

The spoon went over the candle; Robin watched the powder smoke a little before it started to dissolve into a dark brown liquid. Disgusted, he looked away as Roy transferred it to a new, clean needle and pushed the plunger down to get rid of the air.

"Squeamish?" Roy muttered.

"I just can't watch you stick that junk into yourself," Robin spat in reply.

"Hm."

Robin waited a few moments more before looking back, just in time to see the last of the liquid drug vanish into Roy's vein and the needle consequently be extricated. A few more tense moments passed; before Roy gave a little moan and shifted in his seat. A grin slowly manifested itself across his face, and Robin watched him in macabre fascination.

"You're insane," he said quietly.

Roy gave a little laugh, leaning across on the desk.

"Yeah, but… I feel good," he said, still smiling. He held up another spoon. "What about you, Detective Grayson? Can I… _tempt_ you?"

"No, you certainly can't." Robin heaved his aching body up and out of his seat, clutching at his forehead. He was starting to get a splitting headache, which was no help to his present mood and physical health. "I'm going home, Roy."

"What?" Roy laughed again. "It's 3am, Dick… _Dick_. That's an interesting name, you know…"

"Hn."

Robin didn't look at him; but he was having trouble getting back across the room, so trashed and exhausted was he. He collapsed back up against the windowsill, sitting down again to build up his strength. He was inwardly screaming – with the pain, and the frustration, and now Roy…

"Where's my coat?" He asked icily, rubbing at his hair.

"Oh, no, no…" Roy wasn't looking at him, but he flapped one hand at him. "Stay. Don't go. It's too late."

"_Roy_…"

The red-headed detective was fiddling about with something else now, his fingers extremely precise and agile despite the fact that he was under the influence of heroin.

"Roy, where's my coat?" Robin repeated impatiently.

"Look…" Roy rose, swaying a little. He blew out the candle and held up, by the light of the lamp, another fluid-filled needle. The liquid heroin shone amber as Roy turned the syringe over in his fingers. "…You're tense, Dickie. You should… you know, relax. I'll help… I want to help you. To calm down, you know?"

"You are _not_ putting that garbage into me!" Robin snapped, standing abruptly; too abruptly for his physical state, it seemed, for he swayed himself and clutched at the wall for support. "And my name isn't _Dickie_."

"But _look_ at you." Roy reached him, a serene, contented smile on his face. "You're all wound up. You'll never… never be able to do your job… you know? Not if you're all crazy like this…"

"And I don't need _that_ to help me calm down!" Robin snapped, pointing accusingly at the needle.

"'S'fine… Look at you…"

Roy touched his face in a way that weirded Robin out immensely. On the other hand… the guy was drugged up to the high heavens. There was no accounting for his behavior – even when he prodded painfully at a large liquid-blue bruise on Robin's jawline.

"You're in pain."

"And you're _not_ helping!" Robin replied, slapping him off. "Poking it like that…"

Roy held up the needle again.

"This will… take it away. You won't be able to feel it."

"I don't _want_ it."

Robin shoved past Roy angrily; but the other detective grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

"God, Dick… don't you ever want to feel what it's like to be _free_?" He whispered, his tone almost conspiratorial. "We're stuck here… like you said, you know? And there's crooks out there, and we know they're out there, and we can't stop them, even though it would… only take us, what… five minutes to bust them? And we're stuck in this _rotten_ city, and… you take this stuff, and it's like… ugh, I can't describe it. But it feels so good. It makes everything seem so much better, and you… can spend a few hours actually being _happy_ with your goddamn life…"

"That doesn't justify it, Roy."

"Maybe not, but… that's only because the law is stronger than my personal opinion." Roy grinned widely. "And my personal opinion is that this stuff is just great."

Robin pulled his wrist loose.

"I'm going home, Roy."

He started to leave again; and once again, Roy stopped him, grasping his shoulder this time.

"Look, just… just _try_ it."

"_No_. I'm not getting freaking _hooked_ on it, like you!"

"You won't. It's just one little hit. Just _try_ it. You can't condemn it unless you do."

"I can, and I just have."

"Robin… Dickie, _please_?" Roy pleaded, taking both of his shoulders, the needle still clutched in one hand. "You're in pain, and you… you seem so sad. I just want you… to be, you know… _happy_ for a while. And it's okay, you don't need to worry about infection. I never use the same needle twice. Narcotics Dept, you know? I got an endless supply of them. You just seem _so sad_…"

Robin looked defiantly away from him; even as his aching, tired body began to sag a little in the other detective's grip. His headache was really starting take ahold of him, and the bruises ached and the cuts stung—

Without saying anything – only uttering a deep, dragging sigh – he unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and rolled it up.

"It'll be good," Roy murmured happily, taking him back over to the desk so he could do it by the light. "The pain… you won't be able to feel it, I swear…"

Robin still didn't say a thing; already regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision. But it was too late now; Roy had already swabbed the crook of his arm and gripped it at either side of his elbow, pushing up the skin a little to make the vein visible.

He looked away as he felt the tiny prick of the needle sliding underneath his skin and into his vein; and again, not because he was squeamish, but because he couldn't bear to look at the drug going into him.

The effect was almost immediate – Robin could feel a sudden warm calmness spread throughout him even as the needle came back out, as though he had plunged into a hot, anticipated bath; and with that, the pain seemed to drain right out of him, as Roy had promised. The room seemed to tilt a little, as though on a sudden slant – and the colors changed, distorted brighter or darker, depending on what he was looking at. Roy swam in front of him; and to his right, the lamp suddenly seemed very attractive. Very bright, too, like a tiny sun, and yeah, he felt like he should grab it—

It turned out that it had looked a lot closer than it actually was, and his outstretched hand met nothing.

He heard Roy laugh at him, and turned to him, feeling the smile on his face.

"It's not close enough…"

"No."

Robin laid his head on the desk, making some kind of contented purring noise; he pulled his tie loose and off over his head, as though it was bothering him immensely.

"_Mmm_." He stretched out his arms across the desk, dropping the tie off the edge of it. "You're right… this is _good_…"

"Yeah…" Roy rested his cool fingers on Robin's upturned wrist. "Makes you… never want to come down, huh?"

"Yeah." Robin raised himself up again, and reached for Roy, as though to hug him – but, as with the lamp, the other detective wasn't as close as he had thought and he consequently fell on the floor, holding nothing at all.

Roy laughed; and on the floor, Robin giggled too.

"Where's my coat?" He asked for a third time. "I'm… I'm going to go home now…"

"Oh, don't do that…" Roy muttered.

"Yeah… no…" Robin reached up, took hold of the edge of the desk, and hauled himself up again. "I feel good now. I can… I'm going home."

With a deep sigh, Roy heaved himself up from his chair and located Robin's trench and fedora; and bundling them sloppily into his arms.

"Here… but you shouldn't go…"

It took Robin three attempts to get his coat on, which Roy watched and snickered at; on putting on his fedora, he offered Roy another grin.

"Thanks, Roy… for…" He practically fell into him and Roy, who was more used to the drug and therefore had better control over himself while under its influence, had to push him upright again.

"Don't go," he said, his voice practically pleading. "Stay here with me…"

Robin shook his head, reaching clumsily for the door handle.

"No, I'm… I just want to sleep. But I feel good now, so… thankyou…"

"_Don't go_, _Dickie_," Roy repeated.

Robin looked at him for a moment or two; but his vocabulary was suddenly AWOL, and the colors and the slanted room and the warmth were beginning to overpower him, and all he could do was put his hand on Roy's shoulder and then let it trail off, since he seemed incapable of keeping it there.

And then he managed to get the door open and slipped out, leaving the equally-drugged up Roy Harper on his own in his office.

Perhaps, if not in this state, he wouldn't have left Roy on his own – who knew what he would do now there was nobody watching him… But the heroin racing around his body was driving now, not Robin's own mind, which had pretty much taken a backseat; and in accordance with that, it seemed acceptable and even _good_ to leave him on his own and go home.

The absence of the pain made it a lot easier, if not practical, to get out of the GCPD precinct building; he could barely walk in a straight line in this state, but at half three in the morning, there was no-one around to question him. The cab driver he managed to locate didn't seem to care much, either; as long as he got his money at the end – which he did; perhaps a little _too_ much, actually – he didn't care who was in his cab or what state they were in.

And subsequently, on entering his apartment, Robin was barely thinking straight anymore. Maybe Roy had given him a little too strong a dose for his first time, because the room was a swirling mass of color, and he was getting very hot and sticky, and picking up that red pen on the bedside seemed like a good idea…

…and going over to the wall…

…and then collapsing on his bed, still fully-clothed – even in his coat – and falling fast asleep.

* * *

Hm, interesting by all accounts; the chapter of _Remember the Titans_ I posted up today also dealt with a very serious issue.

By contrast, the latest installment of my crackfic, _Teen Titans: Comedy Club_, was ridiculous, of course. As are all the other chapters.

Well, Roy Harper's addiction to heroin in the comic books is a hardly a DC secret, so I wasn't taking any liberties here. Um, yeah, anyone who didn't know that… He _was_, for a period during the 80s run.

Thankyou to: **Me **(are you so satisfied by Speedy's role now, dude? Keep on jigging, though!); **BerryDrops **(there's plenty more DickxKory stuff to come! You've also been involved in this speech too… lucky you); **GraysonGirl **(aww, come on! I'm not a Terra hater! I really like the girl! I just needed to further my plot… Glad you're liking Raven! She usually adapts well to most AU situations; Cyborg, by contrast, is a very tricky one to make fit…); **Quinn and His Quill **(you were _expecting_ him to get beaten up?! You're soooooo sadistic! Meanie…); **Stargirl7 **(heh, finally updated! You're welcome for the plug-in; _Coma_ is coming along nicely. And yes, your summing up of the storyline so far sound accurate. Heh – complicated, huh?); **Guardian of Azarath **(hmm, you're doing a better job of working this all out than Robin is… Hope you're enjoying _Batman: TAS_! Such a great show…); **AlsoSprachOdin **(yes, you're the one who noticed my gift fromFlamers-rock-and-you-know-it. Heh heh. Yeah, _Batman: TAS _isn't on TV anymore. Cartoon Network stopped showing it about ten years ago, and Sky One showed it in the UK for a while in the mornings, but they stopped about a year or so ago. Hope this chapter was promising enough for you!); **Laurapen90 **(well, I guess they're all kind of OOC when you think about it, since they're in a totally different environment. I do see what you mean about Raven, though. Hope this chapter had enough action for you, BTW!); and **Dude **(heh, yes, cool name. It's very… Beast Boy. I've had the opportunity to play around with some characters in this. Bruce is lot harsher, yes, and I've worsened Bullock too. I actually really like Bullock, but you probably wouldn't be able to tell from reading this! You can't draw a circle with a compass? Oh, I'm sure you're not _that_ bad!).

Soooooo… where is this all going? Eh heh. I have a vague idea – but I haven't actually finished writing this fic yet. I really should look into that. I got distracted by _Layer Cake_ and _Teen Titans: Comedy Club…_


	10. Tie

OMG, I'm trying to update stuff that I've left unattended for ages, and incidentally, I haven't updated _Noir_ since **June**…

So… I'm doing it now.

Right.

Tie

Detective Dick Grayson woke up later than he would have liked; since when he saw the time on his alarm clock (which had, of course, failed to go off) he jerked fully awake, swore under his breath and sat up abruptly.

An action which caused him to cringe in agony – a double whammy combo of the after-effects of his beating and the after-effects of falling asleep on top of his covers, fully-clothed. He paused for a moment or two, trying to pull himself together; for indeed, it did feel as though someone had taken an axe to him, hacked him into about six different bits and then tossed them into different corners of the room.

Although there weren't enough corners in a square room to each have a sixth of a person tossed into them.

His vision point-blank refused to clear itself up completely. His head was still carting around that splitting headache. The rest of his body ached all over too, some parts worse than others. His right arm perhaps more than anything – it felt dead, and there was a burning near the crook of his arm.

And here came last night's Billy D—

He made it to the sink without a moment to spare and spent an awful five minutes over it emptying his insides. He had a feeling the heroin – the euphoric high of which had completely worn off by now – might have had something to do with the nausea; not that he cared while in the act of spewing into the sink…

He was late, but what the hell; he pulled off yesterday's sweaty, wrinkled clothes and got into the shower, and the heat of the water was the first thing that had felt good against his bruised skin since… well, since he had acquired the damn things. The heroin hadn't soothed them – only masked them.

He examined the tiny prick-mark on his arm as he lathered his hair. There was no doubt that it had felt good, that hit… But it was drugs, and Robin… No, he did _not_ want to get involved in drugs. He couldn't _believe_ Roy's stupidity; yes, it felt good. That was why Roy _did_ it, ultimately. But it was expensive, and dangerous, and there were some truly evil people down there in the drugs underworld…

And for petesakes, Roy was a GCPD detective _for_ the Narcotics Department. He was supposed to help bust the people who dealt in this stuff, not take it himself…

And so, while it lurked at the back of his mind that it might feel good to take another hit, and maybe another, and… He couldn't be like Roy. He just couldn't do that to himself.

He finished up his shower, toweled off, brushed his teeth and pulled on some clean clothes; before roughly rubbing his hair dry, pulling on his coat and hat, and leaving his apartment in a rush. The shower had made him even later, but it had been worth it – he didn't feel nearly so schleppy. He had gone out without breakfast, but a first-thing office coffee with Vic would make him feel better.

Despite his running late, he made it to the precinct in good time via cab and was actually only a few minutes late, according to the clock on the office wall.

"Vic?" He called, shutting the door. "You here?"

Silence.

The whole precinct seemed pretty dead, actually. He hadn't bumped into anyone in the halls coming up to the office, which was unusual, given the number of departments the GCPD had.

Shrugging, Robin went over to the coffee maker and made himself a cup, leaving it hot so Vic could make himself a cup when he finally decided to show up.

But the minutes passed, and still no Vic. Robin heard the opening and closing of doors up and down the halls, indicating that there were people here – but no-one came near the Criminal Intelligence office, and eventually Robin, after finishing his coffee, got up and left the office. He could go down to the information office on the ground floor and ask if Vic had called in sick. Gar, too – there hadn't been any sign of him either, come to think of it.

Halfway down there, to his immense bemusement, he saw the two women from the information desk go scurrying past him in an upwards direction. Stopping and turning, he watched them go, puzzled. What was going on around here this morning?

He followed them up; until he came to a corridor which he knew – and that was because he'd been here only last night. There was a crowd of GCPD employees in the hall; uniformed officers, secretaries, phone girls, detectives, officials…

He was about to ask someone what the hell was going on; but was startled when some detective he recognized faintly as being another member of Crime Scene Investigation suddenly pointed at him and yelled;

"It's Grayson! Somebody tell Lieutenant Wayne!"

The message was passed up the crowded corridor as Robin stood there in shock. After a few tense moments, during which other GCPD personnel shot him weird looks, the door at the end of the corridor opened and Bruce Wayne – looking rather harassed and white in the face – leaned out.

"Grayson!" He snapped. "Get in here!"

The crowd parted to let him through; but Robin barely paid any attention to the people on either side of him. His heart was thudding his chest out of sudden worry and concern.

Because the room that Wayne had just leaned out of was Detective Roy Harper's office.

There was CSI police tape across the threshold, which Robin ducked under to enter the room before shutting the door behind him.

Here was the answer to his question; Vic was in here. So was Gar, and another member of CSI. Wayne. Bullock. Even Commissioner Gordon. They were joined by a few uniformed officers Robin didn't recognize, and some additional personnel in white coats. He only recognized one of them, and ironically, she was the only woman – red-haired, slender, lustrous.

Dr Pamela Isley, of the Botany and Medicine Dept.

Roy wasn't here.

"What's… going on?" Robin asked softly. "Where's Roy?"

"Detective Harper," Bruce Wayne replied tiredly, rubbing at his temples, "is the reason we are here."

Robin shook his head.

"I… I don't…"

"He's dead."

Robin jumped at the sound of Dr Isley's voice; and an Antarctic blizzard thundered suddenly throughout his entire body.

"_Dead_…?" He repeated faintly. "B-but… that's impossible… I was… last night I was with him, and… he was fine."

"He was fine until he stuck himself with three needles worth of junk," Bullock put in harshly. "OD'd, which is no surprise…"

"That's enough, Bullock," Gordon snapped; he turned to Wayne. "Bruce, what are we going to do about this? This is terrible…"

Robin stood on his own, the nearest to the door, while everyone else sank their teeth into the tragedy. Gar and the other CSI detective had obviously been brought up here to do the full-room search procedure. Bullock was here in case it had been a tampered-with death. Wayne and Gordon were here because this was going to look awful on record unless they did something about it. Isley and the other scientists were here to examine the substance that had caused Roy to OD. Vic…

Robin had no idea why Vic was here; but he seemed to be busy, taking notes as he talked in a corner with a white-coated doctor.

And Robin himself just stood there – icy cold inside, feeling a guilt more terrible and aching than _anything_ he had ever felt before taking hold of his heart and _squeezing_ it.

Roy had asked him to stay.

He hadn't.

Now Roy was dead.

If Robin had stayed… would Roy still be alive?

He didn't know. _He_ had been on the drug too at that point. It was clear that Roy had made himself up another hit while still under the influence of the first one, most likely because, while on his heroin-fueled happy half-hour, the dangers of another hit seemed non-existent. God only knew how much Roy had put into that second needle…

But if Robin had _stayed_ with him… could he have stopped him? Probably not – not in the state he had been in himself. He probably would have been sucked in, and persuaded to take another hit himself. And that would have been two OD cases this morning instead of just the one.

But… if he had been strong enough, if he had just stuck with his original "No"… He would have had the sense to stay with Roy, and he wouldn't have _let_ him take that fatal second hit.

"You were here with him."

Robin jumped, looking up at Bruce Wayne; who was, by this point, standing over him, his arms folded.

"Y-yes… I was, but… how…?"

"Aside from the fact that you told us yourself just now, I wanted you in here because I know you were with him last night," Wayne snapped; he held up Robin's red tie as though it was a snake. "Your little trademark – the red tie. No-one else in the GCPD wears a red tie, Grayson." He thrust it at him, as though in disgust. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to me what _your_ tie is doing on the floor of Detective Harper's office."

Robin, despite his guilt for what he had done, and what he had as good as allowed Roy to do, suddenly got the terrible feeling he was actually being accused of something else – something that he _hadn't_ done…

Bruce Wayne flexed his hands a few times when Robin just stood there, gaping wordlessly at him.

"Alright, I'm going to ask you a few questions," he said finally, folding his arms. "And I want you to answer them honestly. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Were you here with Detective Harper last night?"

"Yes. But I—"

"When were you here with him?"

"I… I don't know exactly. Between about half one to three in the morning."

"He was on night shift, is that correct?"

"Yes," Robin answered warily; he wasn't sure he liked the direction in which this was going…

"Why were _you_ here?"

Robin coughed out an irritated little sigh, indicating his split lip and bruised jawline; the rest of his injuries were covered up by his clothes.

"Police business. I didn't fare too good, and Roy… found me. Brought me back to his office to recover."

Wayne's eyes narrowed.

"I distinctly remember Dr Quinzel telling you to go home," he said dangerously.

"It was a private… uh, errand," Robin fabricated, praying that Vic and Gar wouldn't contradict him. They didn't, but they were both watching him intently by now.

They _all_ were.

"So…" Wayne said slowly, "it's safe to say that you and Harper were here alone in his office in the early hours of this morning?"

"Yes, but—"

"Tell us about the drugs," Bullock cut in nastily.

Robin turned his icy gaze on the Homicide detective.

"What about them?"

"Did he take any of these hits while you were with him?" Wayne continued.

"Yes, and—"

"One word answers will do, Grayson," Gordon interrupted coolly. "Just tell the Lieutenant what he wants to know."

Frustrated beyond belief, all Robin could do was nod and grit his teeth.

"Alright, one final question, Detective Grayson," Wayne said, a raised eyebrow accompanying his words. "And while it may be instinct for you to deny it, let me remind you that you have sworn to tell the truth."

Robin nodded, his heart still doing the jitterbug inside his ribcage. Alright, he wasn't a coward – he'd confess to taking the drug; he'd roll up his sleeve, show them the mark. They could do what they liked to him in punishment, for after all, he agreed that he deserved it; but he wouldn't deny it.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Bruce Wayne finally spoke:

"Did you, last night, have sexual intercourse with Detective Harper?"

He said it quickly, as though a little embarrassed about having to say it at all; and the silence that followed it was the obvious, roaring kind – as though that of a wave building momentum and height right before it comes crashing down onto the shore.

And the question itself hit Robin _like_ that wave – knocking him down in the absence of something to protect himself with and leaving him soaked through to the bone.

For another eternity, no-one uttered a sound – Robin because he _couldn't_, and everyone else because they _wouldn't_.

"Wh… _what_?" Robin managed to choke out finally, his eyes wide.

"You heard what I said." Bruce Wayne wouldn't meet his gaze. "Just a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer will be fine, detective."

"_No_." Robin's voice was shaking, but he had never felt anything as strongly or firmly. "No, I didn't."

Wayne blinked at him; clearly that wasn't the answer he had been expecting.

"Grayson, you swore to tell the truth—"

"_I am_!" Robin snapped, furious. "How dare you even _suggest_ that I would—"

"Grayson, don't speak to Lieutenant Wayne like that!" Gordon cut in angrily. "Show more respect for your superiors."

"But I _didn't_!" Robin almost screeched. He looked around them all, as though they had all suddenly become, in _his_ eyes, distorted, horrendous alien creatures. "Where are you _getting_ this from?!" He stormed in continuation. "A tie on the freaking _floor_?! I can't—"

"Ah, shaddap, ya sleazy little fag!" Bullock snapped, cutting him off with a sudden hard smack to the face.

It caught Robin right where Slade had hit him last night – and for that reason, was incredibly painful and caused a serious bone-jarring impact. His partially-healed lip immediately opened again and he felt blood spurt from his nose too as he staggered against Roy's desk. Leaning over it, getting his breath back, Robin watched a few crimson drops hit the wooden surface; anger and despair rising in him even as he tried to collect his wits.

"Hey, don't _hit_ him!"

Vic – and he sounded pissed off.

But maybe only pissed off because it was disrespectful for a man to hit his colleague; not pissed off because of the reason.

Or maybe even because it was _him_.

"Ooh, whaddaya going t'do, Stone?" Bullock taunted, even as Robin hauled himself upright again.

"Boys, I think that's enough," Dr Isley cut in sharply. She looked at Bullock with dislike. "I don't think that was necessary, detective."

Bullock opened his mouth, mostly likely to fire off something rude to her as well; but Gordon stepped up, looking highly unimpressed.

"Detective Bullock, don't let me see you _ever_ doing that again," he said coldly.

But that was it. He said nothing more; and as Robin turned back to them all, wiping his bloody face on his sleeve, he noticed that not one of them came near him. Vic looked like he had attempted to make a move to, and Gar was gazing sadly at him, but no-one…

"I _didn't_," he said again, his breath shaky. "I swear to you that I didn't. You can… I dunno, test me, or whatever… But I _didn't_."

"Alright." Bruce Wayne sighed; as though he had been hoping that Robin would admit to the ludicrous accusation. "Alright, detective. I'll take your word for it."

He turned to Gordon, and they began to compare hushed notes – Bullock divided his attention between trying to listen in and shooting disgusted glares in Robin's general direction.

Numb, Robin felt that his already-weak legs were about to give out on him; and he sank wordlessly into the chair at Roy's desk in which he had been curled last night, talking to Tim Drake.

_How_ in all of _hell_ could they possibly have jumped to such a ridiculous conclusion? A tie left on the floor? Okay, a tad suspicious, but there were a hundred _other_ reasons for its being there – and as it happened, the _true_ reason for its being there _was_ one of those hundred others…

"Alright, let's overview," Wayne announced, suddenly raising his voice a little. He glanced at Bullock. "Detective Bullock, I think you can rest easy on this one. This looks to be a straight-up accidental overdose on Harper's part, not a homicide."

Bullock grumbled a little under his breath and adjusted the brim of his gray fedora.

"The drug taken was pure-cut heroin. Time of death was probably around five in the morning, according to a rough body temperature check. The body shows all the signs of a fatal overdose, most notably vomiting and dilated pupils. Detective Grayson has testified to being here with Harper between the hours of one and three in the morning, meaning that that while he was present for Harper's first hit, he was not for the second and third. Harper obviously never got around to cleaning up the evidence of his little binge, as the CSI unit has bagged up the remaining heroin, spoons and heating device, and three used hypodermic needles."

"_Three_ fuckin' needles," Bullock snorted. "So we got us a junkie and a fag together in the one room—"

"Bullock!" Gordon snapped. "I recall Lieutenant Wayne mentioning that this did not fall into your department. That was your cue to _leave_."

Bullock's cruel comment, however, was lost to Robin; he was too busy mulling over the piece of information he had just heard reinstated twice within the space of a minute.

_Three_ needles had been found? Only three? But Robin himself had taken a hit, so he accounted for one of them – that meant Roy had only taken two. Still more than enough for an overdose, especially in such a short space of time, but Robin knew it could be no more than two, because Roy had said himself, hadn't he, that he never used the same needle more than once, even on himself?…

"He didn't take three hits," he said suddenly, abruptly standing up. "He only took two."

Wayne eyed him warily.

"We found _three_ needles, Grayson."

"I know." Robin unbuttoned his sleeve and wrenched it up. "…And one of those hits was _me_."

**TT**

"I hope you realize how much _fucking trouble_ you're in, Grayson!" Lieutenant-in-Chief Bruce Wayne seethed across the desk.

So it was mandatory – and really, what _else_ had he expected?

After his admittance to joining Roy on his little Happyland Quest, he had been quite literally and physically hauled down to Wayne's office for a "private chat". Just him and Wayne – and Gordon too, but the commissioner was standing well back, not even sitting at the desk with them, and not saying a word.

To say that Bruce Wayne was _furious_ was the understatement of 1948.

But the man massaged his temples for a moment or two, as though trying to soothe a serious headache.

"Alright," he sighed heavily. "Let's go through this again. You took heroin with Detective Harper?"

Robin hesitated for just a moment.

"Yes," he answered finally. "I did, sir."

"When?"

"Around two in the morning."

"Was this before or after his first hit?"

"After."

"Why did you take it?"

Robin shrugged helplessly.

"I… I don't _know_," he replied in a tiny voice.

"Are you a regular user?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever taken any kind of drug before?"

"No."

"Ah, I see. A nice little one-off experience. Time to cast off the worries for an hour or two." Wayne smiled sourly. "How lovely. I do hope you enjoyed yourselves."

His face suddenly twisting savagely, Wayne leaned across the desk, startling the young Criminal Intelligence detective.

"I'm going to tell you something about the heroin you crammed into your veins last night, Grayson," he hissed. "It was _stolen_. Harper was taking it directly from the lock-up, to which he had the key, being the only narcotics detective here in the GCPD precinct. And obviously, _due to_ his being the only narcotics personnel, he thought no-one would notice if he siphoned a little heroin here and there to feed his addiction. _Of course we noticed_ – we just didn't know who to put the blame on. Harper has a history of heroin addiction on his record, of course; but we had no _proof_ it was him. He always cleared up after himself so very carefully…"

"H-how do you know it was from the lock-up?" Robin asked faintly.

"Harper himself headed a drugs bust-up a week ago," Wayne explained icily. "Took in over six pounds of pure, brand new heroin, ready to hit the streets. The heroin found left over this morning matches it. It's clean, gives a more intense rush – and it's _far_ easier to OD on."

Wayne leaned back in his chair again, folding his arms.

"So… interesting situation you're in, wouldn't you say?" He murmured. "You take heroin, an illegal substance, on the GCPD premises – something which you should have _arrested_ Detective Harper for, Grayson, not joined him in. But it doesn't stop there, because the heroin you took was stolen GCPD property; property that was locked up for a _reason_. To top it all off, Detective Harper is dead, and _you_ are in _very_ serious trouble."

Robin put his head in his hands for a moment or two; his entire body was shaking, and he couldn't even tell if he felt too hot or too cold, or even…

"Wh-what can I do?" He whispered finally.

"_Do_?" Wayne echoed incredulously, and he almost laughed. "Grayson, there's _nothing_ you can do. You're fired."

Robin's head jerked up.

"_Fired_?" He repeated faintly.

Wayne gave him an almost helpless shrug.

"Well, of course you are. Frankly, Grayson, you're lucky not to have been arrested yourself. But I can't let you keep your job. News travels fast in this city and it would reflect terribly on the force; and if Harper was still alive, he'd be out on his ass too."

"B-but… the Blood case!" Robin desperately. "Vic and I—"

"Detective Stone is capable of managing without you until we find your replacement," Wayne interrupted icily, his tone clipped and dangerous.

Robin looked desperately at Gordon; but the commissioner just shook his head at him.

"I'm sorry, son. We all have to pay the price for our mistakes."

Bruce Wayne stood up.

"I want you out by noon," he said calmly. "That gives you the rest of the morning to pack up your stuff. Leave your gun, license and crest at reception. If you ask CSI nicely, they'll even give you a box for your possessions."

He held out his hand in a serene manner. Robin stared at it for a moment or two before realizing that Wayne was offering to shake. With nothing else to do but accept the fate he'd brought upon himself, Robin weakly grasped Wayne's larger hand and let the man sway it up and down. The shake was devoid of anything but a professional obligation, and Robin wanted badly to snatch his hand back.

"It's been good having you on the force, detective," Wayne said emotionlessly.

"Yes," Robin replied weakly. "Thankyou, sir."

Wayne let his hand go and Robin backed away from the desk. Gordon offered him a little nod, which Robin acknowledged but couldn't return, due to his shock and horror. He backed against the door, felt desperately for the handle, pulled it open and quickly slipped out, his head down.

"It's a shame," Gordon noted once Robin's uneven footsteps had died away; lighting up his pipe. "He was a smart detective; good kid."

"Yeah," Bruce replied venomously, not turning to his friend and superior. "They always _are_, Jim…"

* * *

Ugh, yeah… I mean, I can't even write ANs for this anymore, because I wrote this months and months ago and can't remember what was going through my head at the time…

There must _be_ a reason for them thinking that Robin and Speedy got it on (which they didn't, as you know), but… I can't remember for the life of me what the hell it is…


End file.
